


Love's own self

by Kitsfics



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: 1800s-ish not super set in stone, Alternate Universe - 1800s, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Angst, Angst to start then smut then some more angst then fluff, Babies, Can I make it anymore obvious?, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Gregor is mentioned but not a character, Isolation, Knitting, Marriage, Mention of Ramsey Bolton but he's not a character, Might be the only SanSan fic in existence to have absolutely no Hound or Little Bird references, POV Sandor Clegane, Pregnancy, Sandor is a fisherman, Sandor is an angsty lonely fisherman, Sandor's Mom, Sandor's sister, Sansa is a mermaid, Scotland, Scottish Accents, Set in Maine, Singing, Smut, Supernatural Elements, The Cleganes had a rough life, There's only One Bed!, Touch-Starved, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24545707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsfics/pseuds/Kitsfics
Summary: Sandor decides he's done with the society of others after his whole family perishes in a fire. He moves to an isolated spot in Maine to live an solitary existence as a fisherman. One day he meets wounded Sansa Stark, a beautiful mermaid in need of help and protection, and glimpses a life without solitude. Is loneliness too big of a habit to break? A fish may love a bird, but where would they build a home?
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 94
Kudos: 178





	1. Or wilt though rather

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [oh heave away, you rolling king](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23613598) by [LadyofBoneandIvory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyofBoneandIvory/pseuds/LadyofBoneandIvory). 



> I have a lot of WIPs right now, but I couldn't help writing this one. It's just stuck in my brain, crying to be released upon the masses! So I present, the Mermaid AU no one asked for. It will start off angsty, so fair warning. There's a fairly angsty bit it the middle, too. But I promise happy endings and lots of smut!!!!

Sandor felt the first patter of rain against his cheek, growled and pulled his cap closer, extending the folded brim at the back of the knit hat so that the wool covered as much of his exposed neck as possible. He knew there was no use, though. The shower gradually turned into a drizzle, which in turn became a downpour. He never slackened his pace, however. A spit of rain was no deterrent to a fisherman. The smell of wet wool soon mingled with the salt smell of the sea, the fresh briny smell of the cod.

Sandor glanced to the horizon, and saw dark storm clouds rapidly approaching. He had hoped the storm would blow off or linger out over the sea until at least nightfall, but no such luck. Lightning streaked across the sky in the distance. Sandor judged the distance, decided he should head in soon. He’d caught enough fish to feed himself for a few days. He’d hoped to catch more to sell, but no one would be buying at the market in this storm. Sandor drew up the net, noting with satisfaction to two sizable fish flopping at the bottom of the net. He had hardly left the net down for five minutes. It was a shame to turn back when the fish were so plentiful and eager, but it wasn’t worth the risk of being caught out in a squall. Besides, he could only eat so much fish, no sense catching what he could neither eat nor sell.

Sandor turned the boat and began rowing back to shore. He paused for a second, looking back to the sea. His eyes were surely playing tricks on him, but he could swear he saw a flash of red in between the waves thirty or forty meters out, where the waves were getting choppy. Sandor kept his hands moving though, long, steady pulls at the oars that propelled the narrow boat through the water. He caught the flashes of red again, more and more often between the waves. He squinted to try to see through the rain, more and more convinced that it wasn’t an illusion or trick of the light.

He could now make out what appeared to be a dolphin, but with a red back, being chased by a black figure, maybe a shark? He didn’t often see sharks in these waters, but it wasn’t impossible. Why a shark would be chasing a dolphin, Sandor couldn’t explain. And why would a dolphin have such strange coloring? Unless it wasn’t the creature’s skin, but blood.

A strange cry suddenly sounded over the bay, sending a shiver down Sandor’s back. He had never in his life heard such a feral, unhuman sound, full of pain and anger and violence. The shark, or whatever it was, seemed physically pushed back by the sound, or by some physical attack that had accompanied the cry. One moment the shark was in the water behind the boat, maybe twenty meters away, and then it had been thrown back almost as far as it had been the first time Sandor saw it, nearly forty meters away from him.

The reddish creature was still swimming like mad. Sandor found himself hoping it got away, though he couldn’t think why it would be headed for land. The creature was rapidly overtaking his boat. Sandor didn’t know why, but it made him nervous. It was a tiny thing, this oddly colored animal, small even for a dolphin. It was very unlikely that it could do much harm to Sandor’s boat, besides which, he always kept a spear in the boat for just such an emergency as a shark. He’d never had to use it before.

The closer the animal got, within ten meters now, the less convinced he became that it was a dolphin. He spotted glimpses of pearly skin, as well as the brilliant scarlet of the dorsal section. The tail appeared to be a deep, dazzling blue, much darker than any dolphins he’d ever seen.

Something about the creature made him stop rowing, slowly, almost without him realizing it. He stared at the creature’s approach, eyes wide despite the driving rain. It disappeared for just a moment, about five meters away, then reemerged at the very edge of the boat in front of him. He gazed in horror as two hands clutched at the stern, two very human hands, though they were small and slightly webbed. The hands pulled gently at the back of the boat, causing it to dip only slightly under the weight of the creature as it hoisted itself up over the edge. Sandor saw, though believing was not yet possible, flashes of pale skin, long red hair tangled with bits of seaweed and shell, and finally, the deep sea-green of a tail. The head of the creature, if it had a head, tipped over the side of the boat, and the creature tumbled in to rest at his feet.

Before he could do anything, not that he had any idea of what to do, the blue-green of the tail began to vanish before his eyes, and what, moments ago had been scaly and decidedly fish-like, turned to smooth skin so pale it was almost blue. The creature gave a great groan, and then Sandor realized it was retching, spitting up lungfuls of water over the bottom of the boat before coughing and shuddering, gasping for breath.

A hand reached up to push the hair back from its face, and Sandor found himself looking at the most beautiful human face he’d ever seen. Wide blue eyes, full pink lips, sweet, heart-shaped face, though it was twisted in pain. Sandor soon saw part of the source, three diagonal slits on her neck that were sealing up. In a moment, the slits were gone, not a scar or dimple marring the perfect expanse of her porcelain neck.

She lay gasping for a minute, trying to lift herself on unsteady limbs. Sandor reached out to help her, but stopped when she hissed, her beautiful mouth opening to display a row of pointed teeth, far sharper and more numerous than was human. Sandor accepted the unmistakable warning, though, holding up his hands in what was hopefully a universal display of peace and non-violence.

The gesture seemed to pacify the being, she nodded, lowering her head to the floor of the boat and groaning piteously. After a few more minutes, she raised her head, her energy all but spent. The pain seemed to have passed, though, and the next time she opened her mouth, he saw normal human teeth. Whatever transformation she was going through seemed to have hurt her deeply, and sapped her strength, unless it had been the chase that weakened her.

Her lips worked for a few moments, taking several different shapes as her breath huffed out in gusts. After a few false starts, she succeeded in making vaguely human noises. She reached out, her hand latching around his forearm so quickly he hardly saw the movement. He caught a glimpse of her torso and the blood that flowed from a wound in her side.

“Help,” she finally managed to mutter, so small and mewling that he at first thought he’d imagined it. She repeated the word, only slightly louder, then collapsed at his feet.

Sandor didn’t know what was stranger: the appearance of a mermaid in his boat, pleading for his help in words that were unmistakably English, or the fact that he recognized her face.


	2. As on earth before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor finds himself in the company of mysterious mermaid... and a cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm committing to updating weekly. It's all written, but I'm heavily editing right now and working on other works. Also, I've elected to write their accents to some extent. If anyone really hates it, I might scale it back. I know it's a controversial position, and if anyone needs a version without the accents for screen-reader purposes, please let me know and I'd be happy to post a regular version. My purpose is not to distract, but to inform how their voices should sound. ETA: for reference, “ye” should sound more like “yeh” or “yuh”, not “yee”.

Sandor pulled off his jumper and draped it over the shivering woman, leaving him clad only in his undershirt. He began to row again as fast as he could, both for the sake of the injured woman and to avoid the storm that was rapidly approaching. Within a few minutes, he felt the bottom of the boat strike the bottom of the beach. He leapt out and began to pull the boat out of the water, his boots sinking into the wet sand. He pulled the boat high above the tide level, securing it to a post.

The woman seemed to have regained some of her strength. She was sitting up by the time he turned around from the post, struggling to pull his jumper over hear head. Sandor was glad to see it swamped her; her nakedness had made him more than a little uncomfortable. The sight of her smooth porcelain skin made him all too aware of how long it had been since he’d been with a woman.

“Can ye walk?” he asked, then realized he had no idea if she could understand him.

She tried for a moment to get her legs underneath her, but when she stood, she was as shaky as a newborn lamb, and still clung to the edge of the boat. Sandor stepped forward to help her, but remembered what had happened when he’d tried to touch her before, stopped just short.

“Can I help ye? I won’t hurt ye. I promise. But I can carry ye.”

She eyed him warily from where she crouched. He knelt in front of her so she could see him better, hoping to gain her trust. She froze, eyes fixed on the left side of his face. He knew what she saw, the ropes of scars along his face and jaw, all the way from his chin up into his hairline. Normally, waves of black hair fell down over the scars, but with the rain most of his hair was plastered to his neck, exposing the side of his face he normally tried to conceal. He grew a longish beard as well, but the hair didn’t grow where the scar had marred his chin. He waited for the inevitable look of horror that everyone got when they saw him, though he’d almost convinced himself that he didn’t care anymore.

The horrified shock never came, though. If anything, she looked reassured, comforted. She nodded gently, held out one slim hand to him, the other clutching the edge of the boat. Sandor rose, slowly so as not to startle her, and took her hand, pulling her up to standing.

Her skin was very soft, making him all the more aware of his callouses. He lifted her arm over his head, and she gripped his neck. There was something so alien about her touch, it set every hair on his back and arms standing straight up. He bent to place his other hand behind her knees. He tried not to think about the smooth, slick skin of her thighs as he straightened, lifting her slim frame with ease.

He couldn’t help staring at her as he carried her away from the beach. Even with a lightning storm beginning to rage around him, he was utterly transfixed by her. At first it was her other-worldly beauty, beginning with her eyes, the depths of those fathomless pools of blue, the perfection of her pale skin, the dark auburn of her wild hair. Then it was her face, the combination of features and wide-eyed, knowing expression that gave him the nagging feeling that he had seen her before. Try as he might, he couldn’t place her face, and he felt sure if he’d really seen her he’d distinctly remember where and when.

He picked his way through the little wood that stood on the edge of the beach, tearing his eyes away from her face long enough to check his path for obstructions. That was when he felt her hand on his face, the soft pads of her fingers barely skimming his scars.

He jerked his head away, growling low in his throat. “No.”

Her hand hovered in the air where his face had been just moments before, then slowly lowered to rest on his chest. He turned his head back after a moment, and her face was struck, bereft. She leaned her head against his shoulder, whispered to his neck. He couldn’t be sure because she spoke very softly and the storm was raging all around them with wind and rain and thunder. But he could have sworn she’d whispered his name.

This mystery was getting to be too much for Sandor. He was a practical man; he didn’t believe in merfolk or witches or gods or whatever nonsense he’d gotten himself in the middle of. He’d never asked for any of this, had never asked more than to live quietly, simply, without complication or companion.

But whatever this woman was (part of his stubborn, practical nature refused to even think the word _mermaid_ ), he couldn't deny her his aid . Her wound was grave, she would die without food and care. Even with it, she might die. He was no surgeon, there was little he could do but get her warm and bandage her side and hope for the best, send for help in the morning.

Sandor arrived at the cabin, a simple one-room dwelling, built with his own two hands. It was his one accomplishment. He swung open the door, and began to carry her to the bed.

“No,” she murmured. Sandor had thought she’d fallen unconscious. She pointed to the fireplace. “Fire. Need fire.”

He turned to the broad fireplace, kicked the bearskin rug as close to the hearth as he could manage, and laid her down. He tried to ignore her long bare legs as he turned to start a fire, striking the flint a few times before he could get the kindling to catch. Luckily, he’d laid the materials that afternoon before setting out in the boat, after his midday meal. He fed small twigs to the tiny flame. Once it was about the height of his hand, he settled a few small logs around it, sticks of wood with good, dry bark on the outside that would catch quickly. Above them, he set three larger logs, the bottoms around the little fire, their heads leaning against one another. As the fire grew, they would reach the larger logs eventually and catch them. Thus, he would not need to tend the fire for a while yet. He turned back to the young woman, then hissed slightly and turned his head away.

She had drawn up the edge of his pullover, exposing the womanly curve of her waist and hips. She seemed unconcerned with the nakedness of her thighs, the patch of wild red hair that covered her mound. Sandor looked away, but the salty sweet musky smell of her overwhelmed his senses. He was scarcely aware of the girl taking his hand and pushing his fingers against her flank, to the warm, freely weeping mouth of her wound. He felt the edges, clean, she had likely been impaled on a horn or knife. Teeth would leave a jagged edge, as would a harpoon.

She made a soft noise of need, and Sandor tore his eyes from the fire to look into her face. Her skin was so pale, her eyes huge and bright in comparison; at first glance, it was the only part of her that appeared alive, as the life’s blood seeped through his fingers, sapping her face of color and her body of strength. Her fingers, however, clung to his like a vise.

“What can I do?” he asked, his voice husky and low to his ears. He still didn’t know if she understood him completely, but hoped that his eyes would convey his meaning. “Tell me how to help ye.”

She opened her mouth, but the words seemed to stick in her throat. He was reminded of his little sister, who had not been long for this world, struck as she had been by scarlet fever in the bloom of her youth. She had recovered from her initial sickness, though Sandor wondered sometimes if that was more of a curse than a blessing. He remembered how weak she’d been after the fever broke, how she gaped and struggled to find her voice, after weeks of not speaking when the fever lay thickest upon her.

Finally, the words came out, through sheer force of will. The young woman looked deep into his eyes, and her word was unmistakable, though strange. “Sing.”

Sandor was confused, if he hadn’t heard her so clearly, he would have thought he’d misunderstood. She nodded, seeing his confusion. “Look a’ me, sing.”

Maybe she wanted something to comfort her as she drifted off: to sleep, or to her everlasting rest more likely. Sandor racked his brain to think of a melody. He hadn’t heard music in years, he had nothing to offer her.

But then his mother’s voice came back to him, clear and sweet. She was always humming a bit of tune as she went about her work, but there was one song he remembered so clearly, as it was the song she’d sung to his sister on the last night of the girl’s life. He could still see her crouching before the fire, much as he was now, his sister’s fair blonde head on his mother’s knee as she brushed the girl’s flaxen curls. The girl had died scarcely an hour later, and Sandor would carry the scene with him forever, of her sweet smile, the pale cheek and bright, sparkling eye. He didn’t know if he remembered all the words, but if it would bring this wretched thing comfort, he would try, for his sister’s sake.

He began haltingly, deep and rumbling, almost more a chant than a song, as some parts of the melody escaped his memory.

_O my luve is like a red red rose_

_That’s newly sprung in June_

_O my luve is like a melody_

_That’s sweetly played in tune._

The girl sighed softly, but instead of closing her eyes, her blue pools gazed deeper and deeper into his. He felt like a man bewitched, hypnotized. He could not have looked away for any sum, but nor did he want to. Her eyes were like the ocean that had called to his blood as a young boy, beautiful, but dangerous. He was sure many a soul had met their deaths in her depths, but still he could not look away.

He continued the song as well as he could remember.

_Till all the seas gang dry my dear_

_And the rocks melt with the sun_

_Oh and I will love thee still my dear_

_While the sands of life will run_

He felt a strange sensation, his blood ran cold. Soon he was shivering, although the fire burned with fierce heat at his back. He felt woozy for a minute, like when he was six or seven or so, running through the woods, tripped and fell, got up and kept running, only later to find out he had ripped the nail of his big toe clean off. The sight of his foot, bloody and raw-looking like meat made him almost faint.

The girl finished the song when his voice faltered, singing in a clear, sweet voice so like his mother’s he thought maybe he was the one who had died, and she was really his mother’s angel come to accompany him home.

_And fare thee well, my only luve_

_And fare thee well awhile_

_And I will come again my luve_

_Though it were ten thousand mile_

She stopped singing and lifted her hand off of his, pulled his hand back to examine her flank. The spell was broken, and Sandor too could tear his eyes from hers and look to the place where she’d held his hand. It was still slick with blood, but the wound was completely gone.

“Are ye a witch, then?”

The girl smiled, and even though it was only a somber half-smile, Sandor thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “Do ye not ken what I am? Did yer mother never tell ye?”

His head was spinning. “How did ye know my mother?”

“Should sit down. I had to draw a bit of yer strength. Take a moment to right yourself, and ye should be right as rain.”

Her accent, her voice. She sounded just like his mother, down to the word choice and phrasing, though her voice was deeper than his mother’s high lilt. Sandor took the woman’s advice, slid to the floor facing her. She mercifully covered herself with the jumper, which fell to mid-thigh. So much to take in, he felt like his brain would split with it all.

“Yer a mermaid? A real mermaid?”

“Aye,” she nodded. “And yer mother was a friend to me. I met her before ye was a gleam in her eye.” Her face grew still and somber. “I was sorry to hear she died.”

“That was years ago. How could ye have know her, ye can’t have more than a score of years on ye.”

“Mermaid, ye daft man. Yer mother really never told ye?”

Sandor shook his head. He felt stronger now, and above all needed to get away from her for a minute, though something in his bones protested leaving her for even a second. But there was the fish left in the boat, if he didn’t see to it, some bear would get a free supper.

“I have to go see to the fish. Are ye all right if I leave ye here a bit?”

She nodded. “Aye.”

He stood and grabbed a dry blanket from the chest at the end of his bed, and a long flannel shirt he sometimes wore to bed when it was cold. He hesitated before reaching deep into the chest to find his mother’s brush and comb. He brought them to the girl, laid them at her feet like offerings. Then he fetched a basin of water and a clean rag for scrubbing.

“Here, ye can clean up while I’m gone. I’ll just be a few minutes. Just set the jumper aside, I’ll wash it later.”

Before she could say anything, he was outside, breathing in the fresh air. The storm raging about him seemed to pale in comparison to the storm of his thoughts and feelings and desires. He pushed it all aside as he ran to the boat, through the pouring rain, pulled the dead fish into a burlap sack, and walked back to the cabin. Just outside the door, from a small space under a broad overhang that kept it dry, he retrieved his cleaver and a bowl, and took one of the cod to butcher. By the cabin stood a tall tree stump, right at waist height for him, and it was there he saw to cleaning the fish, scraping off the scales, cutting off its head and scooping out the entrails, then cutting the meat of the fish into two large fillets. Once done, he threw the inedible scraps and offal to the woods, let some animal take care of it, then tied up the rest of the fish in their burlap sack, hoisting it on a rope from a tree branch, high in the air so no animals could get to it. Luckily, the nights were still cold enough that the fish would keep until morning.

He strode to the rain barrel that stood at the corner of the cabin, peeled off his shirt and breeches and kicked off his boots, so he stood on the deck, naked as his name day. He dipped a bucket in the rain barrel, then poured the bucket over his head, drenching his hair and skin. He felt better with the salt rinsed away. He pulled his undershirt back on, long enough to cover his hips, and carried his breeches and boots inside.

The girl looked much better, having washed up and changed into his grey flannel shirt. She sat on the rug, her legs tucked under her, brushing out her hair. Sandor had thought for sure the fine red tresses would have to be shorn, they were so matted and tangled with seaweed. But she had coaxed new life into it, and he could smell the salt from where she had thrown the bits of kelp into the fire. Now her hair was drying on her shoulder, and he could see it was shiny and soft from many brushings with the stiff boar’s bristle brush.

She looked up when he came in, and flashed him a smile, not a toothy grin, but a quiet, contented expression, lips slightly parted, then turned back to continue gazing into the fire. Sandor felt his heart skip several beats, as he neared the fireplace. He gathered up the wet jumper, with its wet wool smell, and laid them and the breeches on a wire rack to dry. Then he dug in his trunk for a spare pair of breeches and his only other jumper, as well as a long-sleeved woolen undershirt. He pulled the breeches on under his damp undershirt, secured the fastenings, then pulled off the wet undergarment. When the shirt was off, and his vision unencumbered once more, he found the girl staring at him, eyes roving over his chest. He thought she would look away politely once she realized her glance was noticed, but she continued watching him as he toweled his hair and beard dry with a spare bit of rag, then pulled on the dry undershirt, and the woolen jumper.

“What should I call ye?” he asked with a grunt as he sat on the bed to pull thick woolen socks on his feet.

She leaned forward, gazing into the fire, her hands held out to feel its warmth. “Sansa,” she murmured. Sandor barely heard her.

“Sansa?” he asked. She turned away from the fire and nodded, repeated her name.

“That’s what yer mother called me.”

He stood and crossed the room, to the wall opposite the fireplace, where a small pantry stood. He opened a cupboard door and a drawer, took out a wooden board and a few potatoes. He carried these to a small table, sat down and began to slice the potatoes. When he had finished, he carried them to the fire. He felt Sansa’s eyes on his as he opened a little tin, put a pat of lard in the cast iron skillet that sat on the hearth, slid a rack over the fire, and set the skillet on the rack to heat. When the pan was hot and the lard was slightly smoking, Sandor dumped the potato slices into the pan. They began to sizzle, and Sansa sniffed appreciatively.

Sandor glanced over at her. She had leaned forward slightly, her eyes closed as she basked in the smell.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him, just a tiny quirk upward of the corner of her mouth. “Forgot how much I love that smell. Of food cooking.”

Sandor had a million questions he wanted to ask, but decided to wait. He was too hungry and he needed time to get his thoughts in order, so he didn’t wind up asking a hundred questions at once.

He stood and went to the door, took the bowl of cod from where he’d left it on a little table by the door. “You want to eat at the table?” he asked.

She turned to look at him, then back to gaze at the fire. She held out her hand to the fire again.

“I guess not,” he grumbled. He stepped back to the pantry, grabbed a pair of plates, two forks, two glasses, and a bottle of wine. He returned to the fireplace, set the glasses and wine to the side, and took down a box from the mantlepiece before sitting down on a low stool. He opened the box, opened a little bag of dried pepper, sprinkled some on the potatoes. Then a little bag of good, flaky salt. He sprinkled a liberal amount of this, as this was a far easier seasoning to obtain from trade at the market. With the fork, he pushed around the slices of potato so none stuck. After a moment, he flipped the slices over.

He sat listening to the crackle of the fire, the patter of the rain against the roof. Every once in a while, Sansa would sigh, a happy, contented sigh. Just as Sandor was scooping the potatoes out of the pan, he discerned the tiny sound of claws scratching against the door. He sat for a second, sighed again, and threw the cod into the skillet, where it began to hiss and spit, adding a pinch of salt to each fillet.

He turned to Sansa. “Do ye mind cats?”

She looked confused. “Cat?”

“Cat.” He sketched a shape of the curve of a cat’s back and tail, made a little _meow_ noise. She looked at him blankly.

“Well, I canna leave her outside all night.” He flipped over the fish, then stood and went to the door. He opened it a crack, and a sleek, very wet black cat slipped inside. He shut the door again, and the mouser shook herself all over, stretching on her toes, tail held erect. She stretched for a moment, then padded over to the fire.

“Aye, just come and make yerself at home,” Sandor grumbled, returning to the skillet to flip the cod. “Don’t even ask me how I’ve been.”

The cat looked at Sansa suspiciously, sniffed at her disdainfully, but must have decided the girl was no threat. She curled up in front of the fire, fur quickly drying in the heat.

“Cat?” Sansa asked, glancing at Sandor.

“Aye, a stray. I let her stay sometimes when the weather’s bad.”

He wrapped the handle of the skillet in a thick rag, lifted it, and skillfully slid the fish out onto the two plates, then set the skillet down on the hearth, away from the fire to cool. He uncapped the wine, filled the two glasses halfway, and handed one glass and plate and fork to Sansa, then picked up his own plate.

Sansa held the plate close to her face, sniffing the food. She watched Sandor lift his fork and spear one of the potato slices, popping it into his mouth. It had cooled just enough while the cod cooked, the outside crispy and salty, the inside soft and crumbly. He took a bite of the cod next, flaky and flavorful.

Sansa mimicked his movements, although the potato kept falling off the tines of the fork. Sandor dropped his own fork, picked up a slice of potato with his fingers and ate it. Sansa followed suit, eyes half-shut, savoring the taste. She made his simple fare seem like the finest cuisine, it almost made it taste better to him, even though it was almost the same thing he ate every day. He usually added greens to his meal, for nutrients, but he hadn’t had the chance to pick some.

He took a swallow of the wine, his favorite kind. None of that sweet shit for him, he preferred something full-bodied and a little sour. He wanted it to taste like alcohol. Sansa copied him, and he had to laugh at the face she made when the wine hit her tongue. He stopped abruptly, almost shocked for a minute. He hadn’t heard his own laugh in years. He chuckled again, just for the sound of it. Sansa made a little laugh too, but it sounded more like a hiss than a laugh.

The cat uncoiled herself, came to rub up against his leg. He held out his hand, let the cat smell him, then she butted her head against his hand, and he scratched his fingers against her chin. He set down his empty plate, with just a few flakes of cod clinging to the enamel, and the cat busied herself licking up the remnants of his meal.

Sansa finished eating as well, set down her plate for the cat to lick. She took a sip of her wine, leaning back against the seat of the wingback chair where Sandor normally spent his evenings between supper and bedtime, staring into the flames.

Sandor filled up his glass with wine, topped off hers, then set the bottle up on the mantlepiece where it wouldn’t be knocked over. He turned to Sansa, appreciating the bloom in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes. Her hair was mostly dry now, and he could see it was lighter in shade than when it was wet, red as the flames.

“How did ye know my mother?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for Sandor's singing was: [A Red Red Rose](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Toq7xXxNhQQ)  
> I imagine Sandor's voice a little more gravely, and the melody more simple, less of the extra vocalization, but you get the gist.
> 
> Thanks to [LadyofBoneandIvory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyofBoneandIvory/pseuds/LadyofBoneandIvory) for the inspiration for the healing scene, from her fic "oh heave away you rolling king" which was the initial inspiration for this fic, although it's a different time period and fandom.
> 
> Next week, we learn how Sansa knew Sandor's mother.


	3. Half-faded fiery blossoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor finds out how Sansa knew his mother. Sansa is tired, but there's only one bed!

_Sansa, Forty years ago_

One day, Sansa met a golden child on the shores of Scotland. Sansa had emerged from the water and taken human form, as she liked to do from time to time. Mera saw Sansa emerge from the waves, naked as her name day. She stared at Sansa in open-mouthed wonder, from flaming hair to luminescent skin.

“Where’s yer dress?” Mera asked, gesturing to Sansa’s naked limbs.

Sansa stood confused. She tried to mimic the young girl’s word. “Dre- dress?”

Mera gestured to her own pink gown. “Dress.”

Sansa smiled, shook her head, and held up her empty hands, as if to say she didn’t have one.

“Come ‘ere,” Mera said, scrambling to her feet. She reached out and took Sansa’s hand and pulled her to the forest’s edge, hid her behind a tree. Mera held up one hand to Sansa. “Stay. I’ll go get ye a dress. I’ll be right back, ken?” Sansa didn’t ken, of course, but she was reassured by the young girl’s tone. She waited while Mera ran back to her little house, a cabin not far from the beach. She ran to her mother’s wardrobe, luckily her mother was out in the garden at the time, and reached to the back, took out an old dress she knew her mother didn’t wear much anymore, and an old pair of shoes.

Returning to Sansa, Mera held out the dress. “Here, put this on.”

Sansa held the garment, but Mera could see the strange woman had no idea what to do with it or what it was for. So she took the dress, bunched up one sleeve, then picked up the woman’s hand, pushed it through the sleeve. First one sleeve, then the other, then pulled the dress over the woman’s head, tugged the dress down until the hem of the skirt hung at the woman’s knees.

“Tis a bit short. I think ye are taller than my mother,” she smiled. The woman smiled back at her.

“What’s yer name?” Sansa smiled, shook her head. She didn’t understand.

Mera held her hand to her own chest. “Mera,” she said, clearly and slowly, then repeated her name twice. Then she pointed to the young woman.

Sansa scrunched up her brow, then spoke her name, though it was hard with her human vocal cords. “Sanselinshefeanteji.”

Mera frowned. “I dunna ken what ye said. Sansa?”

Sansa beamed, smiling and nodding. It was close enough.

Over the years, Sansa came to visit her new friend often. Sansa was still a young mermaid, only fifty years old, but her pod had few other merfolk her age besides her siblings. Mingling with humans was tolerated, but not encouraged, so Sansa didn’t mention to the others where she went for weeks on end. Mera had found Sansa an old shack to stay in, and she often visited in the spring and summer, sparingly in the autumn, and not at all in the winter, when it was too cold to make the journey and transition.

Mera taught Sansa English, and Mera was soon able to communicate, her accent mimicking Mera’s Scottish brogue. Mera told Sansa of her family, mother and father and three baby sisters, aged one, three, and six. Mera was eight, with creamy skin, china blue eyes, and long blonde curls. She also had an elder brother, thirteen years old. She’d had other brothers, but they died of illnesses and accidents, three brothers between herself and the eldest.

Sansa learned all kinds of things about humans from Mera, about customs and manners. She didn’t realize it at the time, but she was learning the same lessons Mera was, about society, manners, how to be respectable. Sansa learned how to hold her teacup, not that she knew what tea was, as she and Mera used acorn caps. She learned how to dance, how to sew (Mera smuggled out bits of flannel, needles, and thread). Mera didn’t know how to read, so she couldn’t teach Sansa her letters, but she taught her songs and bits of poetry. Her favorite was “My Luve Is Like a Red Red Rose”, so naturally, that became Sansa’s favorite too.

For five years, Sansa visited the young girl, watched her grow up into a young woman. On the last day in autumn of the fifth year, before Sansa returned to the waves, she held Mera close, running her fingers through the girl’s golden curls.

“I’ll miss ye,” Mera murmured, her face buried in Sansa’s stomach. She’d never grown much, only come up to Sansa’s breast. Sansa was tall for a woman, and Mera wasn’t likely to grow much more. Sansa didn’t mind it though, it made her feel motherly towards the girl, like she had a child of her own.

“I shall miss ye too, Mera. But I’ll see ye in a few months. Don’t become a woman before I come back.”

Mera smiled up at Sansa, a big toothy grin. “I’ll try.”

Five months passed before Sansa could return to the surface. It had been a hard winter, and the pod suffered losses when a rival tribe of folk warred with Sansa’s merfolk. Several of Sansa’s pod died, including her father. She spent many bitter days, though it was hard to tell the days apart in winter in the depths of the sea, crying, wishing she could visit her friend.

When spring finally arrived, Sansa returned to the shore, suffered through the agony of transformation, and ran to the shack where she and Mera spent so many happy days. The same blue dress awaited Sansa along with a pair of shoes. Sansa waited in the shack for Mera to come, as she made a point to always check the shack once a day from spring to autumn. Evening came, but still Sansa waited.

Finally, by the light of the moon, Sansa slipped out of the shack and walked toward Mera’s cabin. She knew where Mera lived, because she had watched her friend head home many times, with Sansa either waiting in the cabin or heading back to sea. She walked for five minutes before she came across the abandoned cabin. She could tell it had been Mera’s home, it smelled the same as her friend. It looked like the family had packed up and moved out, the place was empty except for a few scattered possessions: a shirt, a plate, a corncob doll.

“They moved to America,” Sandor interrupted Sansa’s story. “Over the winter.” He turned to look into the fire, watching the flames dance a moment before he leaned forward and added a few logs to the fire. “She always said leaving the old country was one of the saddest times of her life.”

“I didn’t see her again for twenty years,” Sansa said. The cat had uncurled itself, come back to inspect the strange woman. Sansa held out her hand to it, let the cat get the scent of her before she reached out to touch the soft black fur. The cat meowed softly, arching into Sansa’s hand. Sansa mimicked the cat’s soft cry. She looked up to meet Sandor’s eyes, her expression soft and full and warm. Sandor had never seen a person look like that.

“How did ye find her?”

She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. Sandor reached over to pick up the blanket, draping it over her shoulders. He wondered how she could possibly be cold, what with the fire roaring.

“I can make ye something hot to drink, if that’ll help. Tea?”

“No, I am warm enough now.” Her eyes flicked up and down his face, and a small sigh escaped her lips.

“I tried to convince my pod to go with me. Found out from a neighbor the family had left for America, not that I knew where that was. Kent it was west. They wouldn’t go, though. More and more of our pod were killed by the lions, the rival pod. They were ruthless. My mother, my older brother, my younger brothers, all dead. Only ones left alive in my family were my sister and I. The entire pod split up and headed for new waters, safer that way. My sister ended up going with one pod out east, I went with the other to the south. Eventually I headed west, looking for the one person who’d accepted me for exactly who I was.”

Sandor remembered, then. A young woman at the shore, calling to his mother, who’d looked confused for a moment, holding a hand flat at her forehead to shade her eyes from the sun. Then she’d let out a cry, gone running to the surf, carrying her shawl with her, calling out a name Sandor couldn’t make out, though it’d sounded like his.

She’d wrapped her shawl around the woman, whose hair was so long, it almost covered her entire body, then they were dancing about, arms wrapped around each other. Then his mother seemed scared, looked back at Sandor, then to the mysterious woman.

Sansa nodded, as though she knew what Sandor was remembering. “I finally found her, but thirteen years had gone by. She was a woman grown, with a husband and three children.” She hesitated, turned her gaze back to the flame. “It didna seem to be a happy marriage.”

Sandor grunted. “Aye, ye could say that. She married my father to get away from her da, only to realize he was an angry drunk too. My older brother was a sadist, cruel, a real asshole.”

She looked confused, turned her eyes big as saucers up towards his face. “Ass…hole?”

Sandor chuckled. “He was a bad man, ye ken. As bad as my da, if not worse.”

Sansa nodded. “But that little girl, so beautiful. And ye, both of ye were the light of her life. I came back to visit her as often as I could, but I wasn’t there for the fire.”

“I remember now, running from the flames. I wanted to go back and try to save Ma at least, but I was so scared of the flames from before, when Gregor burned me. Ma had told me a bit about merfolk, said they could heal wounds. I ran to the woods, to the little pond there. Ma said they could heal any wound. I called to ye, but ye never came.”

A tear trickled down her cheek, and Sandor felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. She reached up and flicked away the tear, then stared at the drop of moisture on her thumb, like she’d never seen one before, like it came from a stranger, not her own flesh.

“It wasna yer fault, Sandor. Ye was still only a boy. I was the one wasna there for ye, and I will carry that remorse for all my days. I wasna there for her.” She sat, more tears trailing down her cheeks. Sandor wanted to reach over and wipe them away, hold her close, tell her not to waste her tears on what no one could change.

“What happened?” he asked instead.

“My sister came for me, told me the rest of the pod needed me. My brothers were returned, they had not been killed as we had thought. We fought the lions, I and the rest of my pod. A pod’s a bit like a clan, not just yer ma and da and siblings, but lots of families that had been bound together for millennia. It was somethin’ far greater than ye, yer mother, than myself. I couldna turn my back on my people. When I came back, and found out what happened to her-” she trailed off, gazing down at her hands, at the black cat that had curled up in her lap. “I wept for days, Sandor.”

Sandor sighed. “It wasna your fault neither. My brother had always been mad. When he set the house on fire… he’d gotten into my da’s whiskey. The only reason I survived was because I’d kipped out in the kitchen, to stay away from my brother. I knew well enough how violent he could get. He’d taken the whiskey up to our room, and I knew to stay as far away from him as I could. He fell asleep with a candle lit, I think.” He sat remembering, that was the night he’d ripped the nail of his toe, running to the wood.

He glanced at Sansa. “So I guess we’re both orphans.”

She wiped her eyes. “I watched out for ye after that, from afar. I didn’t-” she hesitated, picking at the edge of the blanket. “I didn’t want to get involved with humans again, for a while. But I had to make sure ye were safe, for yer ma’s sake.”

“And today?”

“A particularly dangerous merman named Ramsey. Used to be part of my pod, but he left and took some of his people with him after I refused to mate with him. He wants to make me his bride.” Sansa shuddered. “He’s as dangerous as yer da, and ten times more cruel than Gregor. I injured him in the fight, but I canna tell when he’ll return.”

Sansa drained her wine. “Now ye know my tale of woe. What about yer own? How did you come to be here?”

Sandor shrugged. “Not much else I’m good for. Didn’t want to be around people. My da dabbled in fishing when he wasna drunk. I liked the life. Came out here to be alone, thought I would be for the rest of my days.”

Sansa fell silent, gazing at him as he gazed into the fire, seeing in the dancing flames the faces of his mother, his sister, his brother… A loud clap of thunder made Sansa jump slightly.

“I didna mean to break your solitude. Ye were the only one I could trust.”

“How did ye find me?”

She smiled softly, a twisted, haunted smile. “I recognized yer scent. Even all the way at sea. That’s how I found yer ma again. We have a uniquely honed sense of smell, the Folk. Once I got a few leagues of ye, I caught the scent and honed in on yeh. I was too far to make it back to my own people. Ye were my only hope.”

Sandor shook his head. “Good thing I was in my boat, I guess.”

Sandor bent forward and picked up their plates and glasses, carried them over to the table. He would wash them in the morning. He poured a bit of water in the pan and set it on the rack at the edge of the fire. The water, as it warmed, would help unstick the little bits of food left on the pan.

Sandor went to the door, opened it a crack, looked out at the rain. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he muttered, and stepped outside.

He walked to the edge of the porch, undid his trousers and pulled out his cock, letting his stream of urine out into the grass to mingle with the rain. When he was done, he tucked it back in his pants, staring out at the clouds and storm.

He was unsure what to do about their sleeping arrangements. He only had a few blankets, one bed. He could kip on the rug, but it would be a cold night. One blanket may not be enough to keep her warm.

Was that the truth? Or did he just long to lie next to her, feel her smooth skin against his once more, find out what her hair felt like, if she would feel as good beneath him as he imagined.

And what would he do when she was gone? If he felt her body pressed against his, tasted her skin, heard the cries she murmured in the heat of fucking, what would he do when she left? Could he ever go back to his solitude? Could he ever be happy?

He snorted. Had he ever been happy, truly? With only an inconsistent cat for company?

He shook his head and returned inside, shutting the door and latching it behind him.

Sansa had moved from the fireplace. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs drawn up to her chest, clutching the blanket around her shoulders, the one he’d given her. The other blanket was still spread out over the bed; she was sitting on it. She saw him and smiled. “I’m tired.”

“Me too.”

He stood by the door, unsure of how to proceed. “I’ll sleep on the floor if ye give me that blanket under ye.”

She looked confused. “Why would ye sleep on the floor?”

“So ye can sleep in the bed.”

She smiled shyly. “We could both fit, I’m sure.”

He looked at her directly, decided to speak frankly. “Do ye know what that means, sharing a bed with a man?”

An inviting flush covered her cheeks and neck. “I ken.”

She stood, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl. Her hair had curled slightly when it dried, hung in soft waves almost to her waist. Sandor stared at her hair, longing to put his hands in it, to comb his fingers through those locks, bury his nose there and inhale, memorize her scent the way she’d memorized his.

She stepped closer and closer, until she was only a single pace in front of him. He could reach out and touch her without having to move his feet.

He put out his hand, lifted a lock of hair from her shoulder, delicately, without touching her. It was as soft as he’d imagined, he pulled it through his fingers like spun silk. He lowered his head, lifting the strand to his nose, breathed in deep her briny scent, salty and green and slightly musky.

He turned to look into Sansa’s face. Her eyes had never left him, glowing in the pale light. He leaned forward at last, one arm snaking around her waist to pull her close to him, until they were touching. He looked down on her, waiting for her to stop him. Her gaze shifted from his eyes to his lips, and she turned her face up to him, lips slightly parted.

Sandor stooped slightly, pressing his lips to hers soft as a summer breeze. Her eyes fluttered shut just before the kiss, but Sandor kept his wide-open. If this was the only chance he got to kiss her, he wanted to remember every flutter of her eyelashes, commit every freckle to memory.

He pulled back, waiting for her to push him away, to cry out, to ask where he found the nerve. The truth was, he didn’t know how he had the gall to touch her perfect skin, to kiss her luscious lips, inhale the same air as her.

The protestation never came. Sansa’s hands combed through his hair, latching on for leverage, pulling him back down to her. Sandor walker her backward until they fell back on the bed in a heap of limbs and hair and hands, the blanket tangled throughout. Sandor was sure he’d crushed Sansa under his weight, but she just moaned, trying to pull his mouth towards hers again.

He stopped her, his hands pinning both of her wrists to the bed as his eyes searched her face.

“I don’t want ye to feel like ye have to do this. Bringing ye home, feeding ye, whatever I did to help ye heal, that’s not got any obligation attached. I’d have helped ye even if ye didna ken my ma, same reason I let that cat come in from the storm. Cause I’ve a soft heart, I guess. Deep down. What I’m tryin’ to say is ye dinna have to do this.”

Sansa beamed at him, a wide toothy grin that stopped his heart and flooded his brain with sentimental impulses, to kiss her, hold her, love her until his bones turned to dust.

“Maybe it’s yer soft heart that I like, and yer strong arms, and yer sweet mouth. Ye’ve been lonely a long time, Sandor. I ken that. And so have I. Love me, Sandor. If just for a night. I don’t want to be alone.”

Sandor bent down to press his lips to hers again, releasing her wrists so his arms could wrap around her slight frame. He knew if he loved her tonight, he would never stop no matter the distance between them. But he would give her what she wanted. He was powerless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week, smutty times!!!
> 
> Hope that the timelines weren't too confusing. Basically, Sansa met Sandor's mom, 13 years later she meets Mera again, when Mera is 26, Gregor is 7, Sandor's sister Daisy is 6, and Sandor is 5. The next year, Daisy gets sick, Sansa helps cure her with herb-lore, but Daisy dies the next year, when Sandor is 7. Sansa is called away by Arya, and the next year, Gregor burns down the house with his parents inside, when Sandor is 8.
> 
> Anyway, enough plot. On to the fucking!


	4. Pale with heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SSSMMMUUUTTT!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting early because I forgot it was only Tuesday! Whoops!
> 
> Fuck, this is a long chapter! I would apologize, but there's just so much smut, I hope no one minds. Also, there just wasn't a logical place to break, and it would have messed up my chapters, anyway.
> 
> I was gifted a lovely moodboard from [Suzi](https://farovermistymountains.tumblr.com/):
> 
> I also made my own, which is nowhere near as good, but not bad for my first try:
> 
> Hope you enjoy the moodboards and the smut!

Sandor kissed Sansa again and again, hoping that he wasn’t bruising her. He probably should have warned her that he was not the gentle type. He did try to go slow, but he was filled with a driving need to devour her, to cover every bit of her skin with his hands, and to set his lips to follow the trail of his fingertips as fast as he could. He kissed a trail down from her mouth to her neck, soon drunk on the little moans and gasps he elicited from her.

Sansa’s hands surprised him by digging under his pullover and undershirt, running her fingers up his back, making Sandor shiver. Sansa started to pull his shirts up, and Sandor pushed up to his knees, towering over Sansa as he pulled his shirts over his head at once. Once his vision was clear again, he saw that Sansa had followed his example, and lay bare beneath him.

Sandor sat for a moment, his legs on either side of her slim hips, looking down at her bare torso. He reached out to touch her smooth skin, fingers sliding over the flesh where she had been wounded, marveling at the smooth, unblemished skin. His eyes wandered up over her breasts, which he had only half-glimpsed before in the boat, between the strands of her hair.

His fingers lightly skimmed over her right breast, just glancing over her nipple. Sansa moaned gently, as the nipple stiffened and pebbled beneath his touch, turning in color from soft pink to cherry red. He felt his cock straining against his breeches. He didn’t feel like he’d ever been this hard.

Sansa noticed too, her big blue eyes tracing the shape of him through the material. She reached out trembling fingers, quickly unfastened the lacings and pushed his pants down. She gazed at him a moment, eyes running down the length of him, then letting her fingers slide down the velvety softness. He closed his eyes and groaned when she wrapped her hand around him, fingers barely overlapping. She held him in a loose grip, just letting him push through her hand when he involuntarily thrust forward. A small bead of fluid gathered at the tip, Sansa ran her thumb over it, spreading it over the head.

Sandor fell forward, landing on his hands, his body hovering over her form, lowering himself until his chest was just touching the tips of her breasts. He held his weight on one hand as he pushed his other hand between her thighs, reveling in the smooth skin there, the way she shivered. She spread her legs for him, and he knelt between her thighs, his lips finding hers again, his tongue reaching out to explore her mouth.

He wanted to fuck her then, more than anything, but knew he wouldn’t last long. More than anything he wanted her to be happy, to give her pleasure. He began kissing her face, cheeks and forehead, then the soft shell of her ear, down her neck, to her collar bone, then at last her right nipple. He lapped at it first, letting his tongue drag against the sensitive bud. Sansa gasped when he closed his lips around the tip of her supple breast, sucking gently. Sansa threaded her fingers into his hair, holding him close to her. He glanced up at her, head thrown back, eyes shut tight, before he let her go and moved to the left breast, repeating the same ministrations to the nipple there.

When he had her gasping beneath him, he continued his route downwards, kissing at the soft skin beneath her breasts, down her stomach, making her giggle when he hit a sensitive spot below her navel. When he reached the spot just above her mound of flaming hair, he slid to his left, off the bed, and pulled Sansa to the edge, drawing a little cry of surprise from her. He knelt at the edge of the bed, settling her legs over his shoulders. He bent his head to her center, pausing to glance up at her, to take in her wide, wondering expression, before kneeling to press his lips to wet folds.

He’d never kissed a woman like this, though he’d heard bawdy jokes from men in the bars in town. He worked mostly on impulse, responding to her soft sighs and the movement of her hips, noticing what she liked and repeating those actions that gave her pleasure. He started with gentle, closed-mouth kisses against those small vertical lips, tilting his head so they were parallel to his. Then he slid his tongue between them, lapping his tongue from bottom to top of her slit. Her cunt was dripping wet, and he caught the same scent as before, salty sweet musk. He slid one hand around her leg, using his fingers to spread her folds. He stared for several seconds at her center, before lowering his head to lap at her entrance, drawing some of her fluid onto his tongue. She seemed to enjoy that, but then he turned his attention to the bud at the apex of her sex, lapping at it with the broadest part of his tongue. Sansa gasped, her hand reaching down to twine in his hair. When he drew the node into his mouth, applying gentle suction, she moaned, her legs tightening for a moment around his head. But the strongest response came when Sandor flicked his tongue against her nub. He glanced up at Sansa, saw her head thrown back, eyes half-shut. Her hips bucked against Sandor, her hand holding him fast.

He alternated his motions, first lapping, then suckling, then flicking. He was encouraged by the sounds he was drawing from Sansa, first gasps, then moans, her breaths coming quicker and quicker. She murmured his name, and Sandor, driven by the need to please her, darted his tongue against her, faster and faster, her hips moving sharply against him, grinding into his mouth, until she cried out, her hips stilling against him. After a moment, she writhed under him, sighing softly and moaning. Sandor lapped at her gently until she pushed him away.

As he pushed away from her, she murmured a few words he didn’t understand.

“What was that?” he asked, wiping her juices from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Sansa smiled up at him, reaching for him. “I said some choice words in my native tongue. I don’t know what the English equivalent is. I didn’t know men did that.”

Sandor sat up on his knees, leaning against the bed between Sansa’s knees. He shrugged one shoulder. “I’d heard other men make jokes about it, they say women like it.”

“But you’d never done it before?” she asked, her fingers curling around his waist. He shook his head.

Sansa sat up on the edge of the bed. With Sandor still kneeling on the floor, Sansa’s head was more or less on a level with his own. She leaned forward to press herself to him, her lips against his, opening when he swiped at her with his tongue. She moaned against his mouth, and his body responded instinctively, pulling her hips against his, his cock brushing against her wet cunt, making his breath catch in the back of his throat.

“Sandor,” she panted against his neck. “Please. Put it in me.”

Sandor got that dizzy feeling again, like all the blood had rushed from his head. He pushed Sansa back in the bed, swung her so she lay down the length of the bed, instead of perpendicular to it. He let his breeches fall as he stood, kicked them off. He knelt above her, weight propped up on his elbows so he could be as close to her as he could without crushing her. Sansa spread her knees, feet resting on the mattress on either side of his hips. She lay looking up at him, her hair spread on the pillows behind her head. Her eyes were dark with lust, her breath shallow. She must have felt he was taking too long, staring at her. She bucked her hips against his, a little moan of need escaping her lips.

Sandor reached down to grip his cock, two fingers swiping into her cunt to collect a bit of her slick fluids. He ran his fingers over his cock a few times. Before he pushed in, he skimmed his cock through her folds from back to front, until his cock was slick and slippery. Sansa groaned when the head of his cock nudged the sensitive nub, and Sandor took a second to rub his thumb there, watching with appreciation when she moaned and bucked against him.

“Please,” she murmured, almost begging with need.

He finally pushed inside her, his cock almost immediately swallowed in her wet, greedy cunt. The sensation took his breath away, the way all of her folds opened for him, conforming to his shape like a lock to a key. He’d never felt so sheathed before, it almost made him reluctant to leave her, even for just the moment it took to pull out only partway, though thrusting back home was even more pleasant the second time. These two feelings warred within him, wanting to stay lost in her folds, but wanting the feeling of entering her again, until he was moving faster and faster inside her.

He didn’t have to ask if Sansa was enjoying it as much as he. She’d wrapped her legs around his hips, feet tucked behind his knees. Her arms wrapped around his waist, one hand between his shoulder blades, the other pressed to the small of his back. Unlike when he’d been kissing her cunt, she didn’t close her eyes, though her eyes did fall half-shut from time to time. Mostly she watched him, though, and he would have felt self-conscious if it wasn’t clear from her eyes and her moans that she was getting closer to a second peak.

He knew he wouldn’t last much longer, and he wanted her to get her pleasure too. He shifted his weight to one arm so he could reach the other hand down between them to massage his thumb over the little node that had made her fall apart before. She gasped and moaned, throaty and low. He thought it was one of the most beautiful sounds he’d ever heard, when she clutched his back, her fingertips pressing hard enough to bruise, head thrown back, short sharp cries torn from her throat. Those cries, and the way her cunt clenched around his cock, told him she’d reached her climax, and he felt free to tumble over the edge himself, dropping his head to her neck as he came, shooting pulse after pulse of his seed into her. He realized with a shock that he had cried out himself, a feral sounding grunt, as he gave a few more thrusts into her, soft and slow this time.

Sansa began to kiss his cheek and forehead and shoulder, cooing contented little sounds against his neck. He rolled to the side, his cock leaving her with a sad little sloppy sound. He couldn’t help but look at her, laid out bare before him, her long hair now slightly mussed and disheveled. Her eyes followed his movements, as he stood and went to get a rag to clean the mess of their fluids left on his cock. She stretched and yawned, and for a moment she looked just like the stray cat that he laughed aloud.

The sound surprised her, she looked at him with her big eyes. “Why ye laughin’?”

“You looked just like the cat, when you stretched.” He shook his head. “I think you have bewitched me. I haven’t laughed in ages.”

Sansa looked pleased at the explanation, maybe at the thought that she had ensnared him. She sat up, looking around the room for something. Sandor followed her gaze. “What do you need?”

“Chamber pot? I think that’s what it’s called?”

“Oh, aye. It’s outside, I never brought it in. You can use it out there if you’d like, it’s under the overhang so you shan’t get wet.”

He led her to the door, opened it and pointed to the little pot. “Just put the lid on when yer done, I’ll empty it in the morning.”

He left her alone to relieve herself, though he stood just inside the door, both protective and, if he were truthful with himself, a little concerned that if he left her alone, she would vanish. He couldn’t stand the thought that he’d finally cracked, living in a cabin all by himself, and imagined a mermaid to fuck.

He went to the fireplace, ostensibly to rebuild the fire, but he paused, listening to her footsteps as she walked across the wood porch, the clank as she replaced the lid, then her footsteps back towards the door. When she reemerged, he breathed the tiniest sigh of relief, and set about banking the fire as she slipped into the bed, under the covers. The black cat lifted her head to look at him, then settled herself back down to sleep.

He rose and approached the bed, sat on the edge looking down at the woman in his bed for a moment. She smiled up at him, then shivered slightly. She held her hand out to him, tried to pull him to her. “Cold,” she murmured.

Sandor slipped beneath the covers, Sansa’s body soon clinging to his so it became hard to tell where he ended and she began. Their legs tangled, her arm slid around his waist as she buried her face in his chest, and her hair was everywhere, gleaming strands of copper and fiery red, gleaming in the firelight. He was kissing her forehead, running his hands over her back.

“I thought you would disappear, when you walked out the door. Did I dream you?”

She chuckled, the sound vibrating against his skin. “No, you didna dream me. Did I dream you?”

She pulled back so she could look into his face. “I don’t know. Maybe,” he replied softly. She must have bewitched him. He never talked this much. But now all he wanted to do was talk to her, hear what she had to say, watch her eyes, laugh with her, watch her face. He’d heard of animals who mated in days-long marathons, taking neither food nor rest until the female’s heat was over, and Sandor could relate with that feral need. Not that he wanted to do _that_ all night, he sensed it might start to chafe after a while, but something in him was loathe to sleep, thought sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. He remembered being a small boy on Christmas Eve, long before his brother had turned into a monster and before his father turned to drink, before his sister got sick, when Christmases were still a joyous holiday, when he sat up long into the night, too excited to sleep. He hadn’t thought about that in years.

Sansa leaned forward to kiss him, and when she leaned back, Sandor took in her swollen lips, the red marks on her neck from where his beard had rubbed and irritated the sensitive skin. “Are you well? I didna hurt you or anything?”

She shook her head, yawning again. “No, you didna hurt me. You were very sweet to me.”

“And you did enjoy it?” She nodded again, lips curved in a sly smile as she slid just a little closer to him.

“Aye, I did.”

He let out a breath. He felt needy and unlike himself, though he couldn’t help being concerned. He’d never been with a woman who claimed to enjoy it, not in a way he believed. Some made similar noises, but it hadn’t felt at all like this, and it had never been like this after, soft and warm and curled up together. He kissed her forehead again and tucked her forehead underneath his chin.

After a few minutes, he realized Sansa was asleep, though he wondered how she could possibly be comfortable, with her face buried in his chest. He wondered if she could even breathe, and rolled to his back instead. Sansa followed him, sliding her left leg over his thigh, so their legs were still as entwined as before. She laid her head on his shoulder, his left arm wrapped around her back. In a few minutes, she was deep asleep, the room filled with the soft sound of her breathing, the crackle of the fire, every now and then a log popped and settled. Sandor drifted off eventually, though little sounds from outside woke him every hour or so.

He woke up some time around midnight, he judged. The oilpaper window by the front door still showed faint flashes of lightning under the crack of the shutters, though he could no longer hear the thunder. Just the gentle patter of the rain, so the worst of the storm must have passed on. Sansa had rolled away from him, and he had followed her in his sleep without realizing it, his chest pressed to her back, hips against her plump rear, front of his thighs against the back of her legs. He realized quickly that his cock was hard, and pressing into her bum. To his embarrassment, he realized Sansa had woken and noticed his interest, although how could she not? It was stiff as rocks, jutting straight into her.

She rolled over in his arms with a giggle, and before he could apologize, she’d covered his mouth with hers, her arms wrapping around his neck as she pushed him on his back. She followed him as he moved, so her lips stayed locked on his, throwing one leg over his to straddle his hips. Sandor marveled at this new position, running his hands up and down her back as her hair cascaded down around his head and shoulders. He wished deeply that he could see her, but the dark night also brought a kind of release from propriety. He realized he felt slightly less self-conscious this time, either because of the dark, the slight familiarity with their bodies, or the way she took charge of the situation in a manner that invited no discussion.

Before he could say anything at all, she sat up and sheathed herself on his cock to the hilt. Sandor had felt bereft of her warmth and hair and lips, but the pleasure of her warm folds surrounding him once more made him forget the loss, grunting softly as she lifted her hips, then lowered herself fully onto his cock once again. Sandor began thrusting his hips upward to meet her, a soft slap of skin on skin filling the small room. Sandor reached forward and put his hands on her hips to help lift her up and down. Sansa let her hands rest on his chest, her fingers brushing through the soft hair that curled there.

He could feel his orgasm building in his lower stomach, still distant but approaching. He was determined to make sure she went first, though, so he reached one hand down to where they were joined, his thumb finding the small node, like a tiny pearl at the entrance to her clam. He licked his thumb, and ran it over the little pearl, quickly, back and forth. Sansa was moaning now, short breathy gasps as she rode his cock faster and faster. She murmured his name, and a few words he didn’t understand. She grabbed his hand, guiding him to the optimal speed, then cried out sharp and high. The rhythm of her hips stuttered then slowed as the walls of her cunt contracted around his cock, holding him in the tightest grip, pulsing like a heartbeat.

She fell onto his chest, boneless and supple, her hair flooding around him again, trapping him in her briny scent. Sandor found her mouth, kissed her over and over until she was breathless. “Oh, Sandor,” she murmured against his neck. “Don’t stop.”

Sandor held her to him close, rolled over, careful not to crush her. He propped himself up again on his elbows, and began moving in and out again, pistoning his hips up and down into hers. Sansa was moaning again in his ear, his name, gasps and invocations and pleas to him not to stop, never to stop. He thought nothing could feel as good as her sweet, tight cunt, but the effect of her breathy whispers drove him wild, stroking his ego and his lust. He drove into her over and over, until they were both panting and groaning, the clench of her walls telling him she had peaked again with him.

And then again, after, soft kisses and low murmurs, though later he couldn’t remember exactly what was said. He didn’t bother cleaning up this time, just curled up behind Sansa again, his sticky yet sated cock resting against her round bottom. If she minded the mess, she didn’t say anything, just pulled his hand around and resting it against her breasts. They were both asleep within minutes.

The next time he awoke, it was perhaps a few hours before morning. A thin pale light of dawn crept in under the shutter. He was lying on his other side, facing away from Sansa, and she was curled around him, this time. He could feel her cheek against his back, her breasts and stomach warm against him, her hand idly teasing his cock with feather soft touches. He could tell by the sporadic movements that she wasn’t doing it on purpose, and her smooth, even breathing suggested she was asleep. After a few moments, he was fully erect again, and Sandor’s groan woke Sansa, who giggled to find his hard cock in her hand once more.

He pushed away from her slightly, went to sit on the side of the bed. Sansa followed him, leaning against his back, her mouth planting small, wet kisses on his neck.

“Sandor,” she moaned, almost a whine. “Is anything amiss? Are you mad that I made you hard again?”

That made him chuckle, and turn to kiss her. “No, I’m not mad at you about anything, least of all that. I just know I’m going to wake up soon.”

Sansa lifted his arm, crawled under it to climb into his lap, her legs straddling his hips. “Nay, yer not dreaming, silly man. I’m here and I’m as real as you.”

He wanted to ask her how long she would be there, but he kissed her instead, made love to her quickly with her straddling his lap. He let his tongue dance over her neck as he thrust up into her, tasting the salt of her skin, inhaling the vaguely floral perfume of her hair. He took each nipple in his mouth in turn, teasing them with lips and tongue and teeth. She reached her peak quickly, with a ferocity that surprised Sandor, her teeth bearing down on his shoulder as his thumb danced over her pearl.

Suddenly, not really knowing what got into him, he stood up, with Sansa clutching tight to him with her legs and arms. He detached her arms from his neck, moved them to his hips, and hooked his arms under her shoulders, thrusting into her roughly as she bounced up and down in his arms. He could barely see her by the dim light of pre-dawn, her head thrown back, breasts jiggling slightly at each thrust. More fascinating to him was her cunt. He could watch his cock disappear inside her every time he pulled her up and back down again. It satisfied something feral in him, to see her stretched around him, taking his cock and enjoying it. He came in her hard, spilling deep inside her, his growl filling the room as he thrust a few more times inside her.

She hadn’t had her orgasm again, though, since he hadn’t had a free hand to stimulate her. He carried her back to the bed, threw her crosswise upon it, and sank to his knees, his tongue quickly finding her pearl and lapping at her. It was different this time, kissing her cunt. She was so wet this time, so much wetter than she’d been the first time, that at times he lost his way in the frenzy of her bucking hips. The taste was different too, she tasted saltier and muskier than before, less sweet. He supposed that was himself he was tasting on her, and it drove him wild with possessive lust. Some instinct made him insert two of his fingers, tips facing up, and his inventiveness was rewarded with an appreciative moan from Sansa, soon followed by a sharp, almost keening wail, as she reached her climax.

Not content yet, Sandor kept his lips on her cunt, and when her moans had almost subsided, and the bucking of her hips slowed, he applied his tongue to the pearl again, fingers working in and out of her drenched cunt. She was crying his name now, shuddering as she reached her peak again, muttering foreign words in her frenzy. He made out “mo duhaig” and “quei”. He licked her gently now, long stokes with the flat of tongue, as she rode out the waves of ecstasy.

Finally, he was satisfied that she had had her fill. He crawled up to her, finding her limp and pliant. Because of him, he thought with small pride as he knelt beside her, placed one hand under her legs and one under her shoulders, lifting her from the blankets, laying her down length-wise with the bed and pulling the blankets up over them both. He knew he should probably be embarrassed by all their fluids mingled and drying in his beard, but he didn’t mind at all. He did worry about getting it in her hair though, and reached beside the bed to find the bit of towel he’d used to dry his hair the previous night after his quick bath. He dried his beard and mouth as much as he could, then discarded the towel again and came to lay beside Sansa, facing each other. They twined their arms around each other as though it pained them to be too much apart, and fell asleep in seconds.

Sandor awoke to full daylight, and a sight that would have struck any man mute with its beauty. Sansa lay on her back, coils of red hair flowing around her like ocean waves. The blanket had fallen down to her waist, exposing expanses of creamy skin, the two mounds of her breasts, perfect pink nipples soft and pliable. The repose of sleep left her face even sweeter and gentler than waking, lips curved in the ghost of a smile. Sandor propped his head up on his hand, greedily taking in the relaxed features, the fullness of her lips, the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. It was the only flaw he could spot in her, those freckles, like the gods had decided no one creature had the right to be so perfect.

He longed to reach out and touch her, but refrained for several reasons. First, he did not want to wake her. She must be tired after her long day of nearly dying, and the frenetic and frenzied love-making of the night before had shortened her sleep. Second, he knew that when she woke, she would surely leave.

He did not have a logical reason for why this must be so. He simply knew that her wanting to stay with him was impossible, never even entertained the question, thus her departure was imminent and irrevocable, a foregone conclusion. Maybe she would want to return someday, but still he would suffer without her. And whether she left today or tomorrow or in a month, what did it matter? He would still be alone eventually.

As though his worries had summoned her, she began to stretch and waken. After a moment, her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled at him, a warm, toothy grin that Sandor couldn’t help but to return. He reached out and laid a hand on her stomach, leaning forward to drop a kiss on her cheek.

“Morning,” he murmured, eyes dancing over her face.

“Morning!” she sang with a yawn, rolling onto her side to face him, scooting closer to his warmth. “Did you sleep well?”

She chuckled against his chest as she said it, and a rumble of laughter escaped him as well. “I slept alright, I guess. Though some lass kept waking me up.”

She grinned cheekily, leaning up to kiss him. She gave a dramatic gasp. “Oh dear, you must be right sore with her.”

He kissed her back, murmuring against her lips, “Ah, she’s a good girl. Means well.” He pulled back after another kiss. “While we’re on the subject, though, how did you bewitch my cock? It’s never stood up so many times in one night, not even when I was a much younger man.”

Sansa giggled, trailing her hand down his chest and stomach, circling her fingers over his lower belly. “Merfolk are kin to the sirens, you ken. I can make a man’s cock do whatever I want.” As though to illustrate, she ran one finger down his cock, from root to tip. Within seconds, his cock, that had previously been standing at attention, not fully hard, but half-mast as a sailor might say, lay down against his thigh, soft and supple. She touched him again, this time one finger trailing down his thigh, and his cock stood at attention, feeling hard enough to crack eggs. He groaned.

“Sirens, huh? You going to lure me to my death, fuck me til I’m a wasted husk of a man?”

She grinned. “What is this word, fuck?”

Sandor smiled, though a little exasperated with the timing she had chosen for her English lesson. “It’s a swear word, not used in polite society. It can mean a lot of things. You say ‘Fuck!’ real loud and angry when you bark your shin or stub your toe. You can use it for emphasis, when you want to get yer point across strongly. You say, ‘I’m sick of this fucking rain’ or ‘That’s a fucking beautiful sunset.’ Most importantly, though, it’s the act of mating, fornicating, coupling, whatever you call it.”

Sansa grinned. “Is that the most you’ve ever said at one time before?”

“That’s more words than I’ve said all year.”

Sansa leaned forward to kiss Sandor. “In answer to yer question, I think I will fuck you to death.”

She pushed Sandor onto his back, though she did not move to straddle his hips, instead kissing her way down his chest and stomach, kneeling by his hips. Sandor inhaled sharply when she brushed her lips against the head of his cock. She smiled against him, one hand wrapping around his cock to hold it steady as she opened her mouth to draw her tongue up the back of him, from root to tip. He shuddered at the sight of her long pink tongue swirling around the head of his cock. “Is that how you do it? I’ve never done this before.”

“I’ve never done it either,” he grunted, making her giggle as she licked up and down his shaft. “I’ve never gotten one, neither, so it’s the best I’ve ever had.”

His eyes tracked her every movement as she moved her head around him to lick all sides of his cock, then came back to the tip, licking first, then putting the whole head in her mouth to suck gently. She used her lips to apply a little pressure, puckering around the head, while her tongue flicked at the tiny slit at the very end. Sandor whimpered when she let her mouth descend down on him, taking as much of him into her mouth as she could. Then she clamped her lips around him, and slowly pulled her mouth back from him, maintaining a light suction as she went, lips pulled tight around him, the rest of her mouth and tongue playing the part of the walls of her cunt, contouring to his shape.

Then she let her mouth descend again, this time only halfway down his shaft, one hand coming up to cover what her mouth couldn’t. She let her pace quicken, and varied her movements. Sometimes she slowed back down again, letting her mouth descend on him till it felt she could go no further, and then one time she let the head of his cock graze the back of her throat, then it was pushing inside her throat. Her eyes teared up at that, a little, and Sandor appreciated that it must be uncomfortable, though it felt amazing. Other times she returned to lapping at his head, gently nipping at him with her lips. Sandor’s hips started to thrust into her mouth, though he couldn’t help it, and tried not to.

Finally, he grabbed his cock from her, roaring that he was going to come, gave himself a few more pumps with his hand, and spilled his seed all over Sansa’s face, shooting thick ropes of whitish cream all over her face and mouth. Sandor watched as Sansa caught some of it in her mouth, swallowing it down, then that delicate pink tongue snuck back out again to flick gently at the head of his cock, making him groan.

When his cock had finally retreated, at least for the moment, Sandor reached over the bed for the rag he’d used that morning, found a clean spot, and gently wiped Sansa’s cheek and chin. He lay back and Sansa ‘curled up next to him. He offered to perform a similar service for her, but she deferred. “I actually am a bit chafed. Might need a little time to recover. Not that I have anyone but myself to blame, I kept waking you up so I could…fuck you,” she finished with a giggle.

Sandor let one hand roam down her side, from ribcage to waist to hips, down her creamy thighs. It would come soon, her declaration that she would have to leave.

As if she sensed his thoughts, Sansa lay a hand on his chest and pulled herself to half-lay across him, her breasts to his belly, her chin on his chest, face turned up to look at him. He reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of leavin’ you,” she whispered, and to his surprise, her eyes were watery.

Sandor rested his hand against the curve of her cheek, the thought of this hurting her was as painful as the thought of her leaving. “No, don’t cry. If it’s what you must do, then don’t regret it. You gave me more joy in one night than I’ve had my whole life.”

She smiled dimly, though a small tear still spilled out the corner of her eye. “I want to do something for you before I go. Not like the other thing, something I promised yer mother I’d do when you got older.”

She held her hand to his left cheek, fingers roaming over the ropes of scar tissue. “But there’s a price. That’s why I wouldna do it when you were a boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear! That was quite smutty!
> 
> For the record, I think Sansa also has magical hair, because, as anybody who's ever had long hair can attest, that shit gets all tangled up when you're having sex. But Sansa does not have that problem, because magic!
> 
> I'm thinking of posting the next chapter early, maybe on Saturday? Because the angst is coming and I hate the angst (not really, love/hate) and I just want to skip to the happy ending, right? I might go ahead and do chapter 5 on 6/27, chapter 6 on 7/1, and chapter 7 (final chapter) on 7/4. Nice little summer treat, and 4th of July treat for all my American friends!


	5. Full of bitter summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa explains the price Sandor must pay to be healed. Sandor and Sansa part ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the angst. It's not much, but it's all my soft heart can muster.

Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, the blue of her eyes watery and shiny with unshed tears. “I wasn’t with yer mother when it happened, yer face. I visited my sister for a few months, when I came back, neither of you were the same. It was the same when yer sister died. I was there the first year when she got sick. You remember when I healed her?” She asked, her eyes flicking up to his face.

He nodded. “I didn’t ken you, though. I remember an herb woman who came to see her, gave her some tea, but she looked so sad, I didn’t connect her to you.”

“I’m sure I did look sad. I felt like I had failed yer ma again. First you, then yer sister.”

“You healed her.”

Sansa shook her head. “In a way. I was able to draw the fever from her head and the fluid from her chest, but the Folk aren’t very effective against human sickness. I did my best, and she got better, sweet thing. But when Daisy got sick again, the fire.” Sansa turned her head, pressing her left cheek to Sandor’s chest. “Yer ma made me promise that someday I would offer to heal yer face. I made the promise, of course, I would have promised her anything.”

“Why wouldn’t I want you to heal me? What is the price?”

She raised her eyes to him, face deadly serious. “You’ll love me for the rest of yer life, pine after me. No other human companion will ever be enough for you. Some o’ my folk say it heals a body but leaves ‘em cursed. Some have walked into the sea, rather than live without the one that healed ‘em.”

Sandor shrugged. “Sounds fine to me.”

Sansa’s even expression didn’t change. “You never want to have a wife? A child?”

“I’d take both, I guess, if the right woman came along. But yer leaving, aren’t you? Besides, no merfolk spell would change what I already know.” He touched her cheek, softly. “There’s no other woman could compare to you.”

Sansa nodded, eyes full of tears. She turned her face so her chin was on his chest, placed her hand back on his left cheek. She locked eyes with him, the blue pools swallowing him whole. “Don’t look away, then. Keep yer eyes on me.”

He nodded. She began to sing, but it was no song he had ever heard, wild and exotic and keening. He felt his skin tingle, a strange sensation, itchy like a sunburn starting to peel. When she took her hand away, his hand flew to his cheek. He could hardly believe what he felt.

Sansa sat up, smiling at him. “I couldn’t heal it all, cause it’s an old wound, but I think you look distinguished this way. Formidable.”

Sandor stood and went to his trunk. At the bottom, turned down so he couldn’t see it by accident, was the hand mirror that matched his mother’s brush and comb. He turned the mirror over with trembling fingers and gazed into his reflection. The scar that had covered most of the left side of his face, twisted and angry, red and ugly, was reduced to a mere ripple of flesh, a pale distortion the same color as the rest of his flesh. He could almost pass for normal now.

“It’s all right. I don’t need a scar to be intimidating.” He stood up and walked back to the bed, where Sansa sat with her feet tucked beneath her. He bent to kiss her. “I canna express my gratitude.”

She looked up at him, expression saddened. “I feel I have done nothing for you. It was yer mother’s wish that I heal you, if you would allow, but I fear I’ve wounded more than I healed.”

Sandor straightened, noticed the black stray cat pacing by the door. He went and opened it, letting her out. He stood for a moment, staring out at the wreckage of the storm, downed branches, seaweed flung as far as his front door, but feeling also the peacefulness of the day, the gentle sunlight streaming through the tree limbs just beginning to bud, the birds chirping sweetly. The cat padded away into the grass without a backwards glance.

Sandor shut the door again, turned back to Sansa, whose eyes had never left him. “When must you go?”

She looked unsure, didn’t reply to him for a few moments. Then she decided. “Sundown.”

Sandor felt like a prisoner whose doom has been delayed. He nodded and went to pull on his breeches and undershirt from last night, gave Sansa the pullover he’d worn the night before. “You must be hungry,” he said.

She smiled and stood. “Famished. What can I do?”

He left Sansa to start a fire while he went out to relieve himself and quickly wash beard and hands with water from the rain barrel. He took down the sack of cod, cut up two more filets for breakfast, then cut up the rest to salt down after breakfast. They had two pan-fried filets for breakfast, salted and lightly peppered, and two cakes of hard johnny cake he made in batches once a week. After breakfast, Sansa helped him clean up the dishes from last night and that morning.

Sandor set about his day, with Sansa accompanying him, helping as much as she could, though mostly she just sat by and watched. After salting the cod filets to preserve them, he set them on a small brazier, loading the bottom of the brazier with coals from the fire and green hickory chips that created clouds of pungent smoke. The smoke would help deter animals and insects, and cure the fish so it would keep longer. After, this, Sansa helped him wash the clothes Sandor had worn yesterday, undershirt and breeches that had soaked through with salty water, and the pullover, stained with her blood. Luckily, it was deep brown in color, and the blood didn’t show much. They left the clothes on a small rack to dry in the sun.

After this, Sandor tended to his little garden behind the house, pulling storm debris from the small penned in area, set to rights the chicken wire that deterred small animals from getting in. Then he gathered what fresh vegetables he could for their dinner.

Soon it was getting time to eat again. Sandor took two cod filets off the smoker, and prepared the fresh vegetables with salt, pepper, and red wine vinegar. Sansa ate every bite.

After dinner, they spent the afternoon indoors, though Sandor left the door open to keep an eye on the cod curing on the porch. They made love in the afternoon light, softly this time, slowly, eyes open wide to see every expression, hands passing over each other’s bodies to feel every movement. They lay in bed afterwards, the shutter of the small window thrown open, the grease paper covering rolled back so they could watch the sun progress across the sky. Sandor lay on his back and Sansa lay curled next to him, his arm around her, her head tucked into his shoulder, and she told him more about her people, why she had to go back to protect her people and warn them.

Sandor found himself wishing that he had been born a merman. He would have protected her from this Ramsey, would have killed that cunt as soon as he started sniffing around her. He thought he would have liked being a merman, the dark of the ocean nights wouldn’t bother him, nor the cold water. In the dark seas, he never would have known the word ‘fire’.

When he woke, it was late afternoon, the shadows growing long. He rolled over onto his side, turned to Sansa. “You shouldn't have let me sleep.”

She slid close to him, letting him wrap his arms tight around her. “You were so tired. You fell asleep while I was talking. I either wore you out last night, or I was boring you.”

He shook his head. “I could listen to you talk forever, little one.” A memory nagged at him, something she had said the night before. “You said something early this morning, I think. The third time. _Mo dubaig_? _Quei_? What does it mean?”

A blush spread over her cheeks that Sandor thought might be the most charming thing he’d ever seen. “ _Quel_ means about the same as yer ‘fuck’. And _mo dubaig_ means ‘my love’.”

He stared at her in fascination. “Am I yer love?”

She smiled sadly, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling his hips in to her center. “Of course. I will never love another, Sandor.”

He made love to her again, the siren’s call making him hard again, or maybe it was just her pretty smile and long legs and warm pulsing center. Her words played over his mind as he knelt to kiss her again, driving her to the edge twice, then again later as he thrust into her. With every thrust, he let himself relive her words, that she loved him, he was loved, that she would never love another. In the days to come, he knew he would begin to doubt those words, but for now he held on to them as a drowning man clings to a raft. It was over too soon, Sansa crying out again as they peaked together, collapsing onto the bed spent and sated.

The last of the light faded from the walls, and Sandor knew their time together was over. He stood and dressed, helped Sansa into the pullover. She protested at first that she didn’t need it.

“Wear it to the water, at least. It’s chilly out.”

He lit a fire, sat down in his chair. “Do you have a few minutes?” She nodded, though they both knew a few minutes was not what they wanted.

Sandor set Sansa on the little stool in front of him, took up the brush, and brushed her long hair until it was soft and shining. Then he began to braid. Sansa didn’t ask, she must have known he’d learned it from his mother, perfected his skills on his sister’s golden hair. His fingers still knew the way, though it had been over twenty years since they’d performed this dance. When it was done, he handed the end to her to hold, went to his trunk, and fetched out a scrap of blue ribbon from the bottom to tie the end of the braid so it wouldn’t unravel.

Sansa took the mirror from him, turning her head so she could see as much of the back as possible. She gazed up at Sandor, words failing her.

“It’s called a fishtail braid, least, that’s what Ma called it.” Sansa laughed at that, then threw her arms around his neck, jumping up into his arms, legs wrapped around his waist. Sandor felt the siren call this time, thought she probably wasn’t trying to, it was just reflex. He pulled her legs from him, disengaging her arms.

“Nay, none of that. You’ve got to go. If you don’t go now, I’ll never let you.”

Sansa nodded numbly, and took his hand. “Walk with me?”

He squeezed her hand and smiled. “Aye.”

They walked to the beach, Sandor watching the ground carefully for sharp stones or twigs that might cut her bare feet. At the water’s edge, the sun had turned the sea into a riot of color, water mirroring the sky: reds that rivaled Sansa’s hair, blues almost as deep as her eyes, purples, orange, pale yellow, deep indigo. He held her to him for a moment, crushed her to his chest. He looked out at the horizon, wondering why the sunset looked so watery, realized his eyes were full of tears. When he pulled back to look at her, he saw her eyes were full too.

“Please don’t cry. Don’t want to remember you crying.”

She smiled, dashing the tears from her eyes. “Nay, suppose not.” She began to hum “My Luve is like a Red Red Rose” and he smiled, ran a hand down her cheek, settling on the back of her neck. He pulled her to him and kissed her like it was the last time. Finally, he let her go.

“Stay safe, _mo dubaig_ ,” he whispered.

Sansa nodded, eyes full again. Despite what she’d said, she couldn’t help them, and neither could Sandor.

“And you as well, my love.” She ran her fingers down his left cheek, caressing the almost smooth skin there.

Sansa pulled the knit jumper over her head and handed it to Sandor. She turned resolutely and walked out into the water, until the waves were pulling at her knees. She turned back once, and Sandor tried to memorize the way she looked, the way the light turned her skin golden, her nipples, tight dark-red buds from the cold, her fishtail braid hanging over one shoulder, pieces already escaping to whip around her face in the breeze. She called to him in that high piercing keening voice, that sounded half siren’s song, half death knell, then turned and seamlessly leapt into the water. Sandor saw the flash of a blue-green tail, but both the color of her tail and the red of her hair were quickly lost in the colorful sunset. Nevertheless, Sandor stood and watched the water for almost an hour, holding the pullover close to him.

Finally, when the sky was fully dark, he turned back and returned to his cabin, went numbly about his evening work, taking in the cod from the brazier before the animals got to it, making his meal, rekindling the fire. But the food tasted like ash in his mouth, the fire didn’t warm him like it used to. Eventually, he went to bed, not even bothering to undress, holding the pullover to his chest as he lay on the bed, watching the remains of the fire die.

It felt like the longest spring Sandor had ever endured, though, paradoxically, it was also one of the most beautiful and mild he’d ever lived through. He felt nature was taunting him with its beauty, its bounty. The fish seemed to jump out of the ocean and into his net. He made enough money selling the extra, that he only had to fish a few days a week. He laid by a small store of the extra coin, spent some of it on much needed repairs to his cabin. The garden grew so quickly, he could scarcely eat all of the vegetables, although he tried. Waste was not something he’d learned as a poor fisherman’s son. The weather grew warmer, the nights so fair he hardly needed a fire anymore, unusual for March. Sweet sea breezes wafted in from the ocean, and though soft rains fell, no more storms darkened the horizon for several months, also unusual for spring.

The practical reason for this was the lingering effects of one of the Folk. The land was just as susceptible to merfolk’s charms as men, and longed for her return as much as Sandor. He remembered as much from his mother’s stories.

For his part, Sandor hated Sansa’s spell upon the little coastline because it strongly reminded him of her spell upon himself. He cursed the fair weather, would have preferred raging storms that matched his dark mood. The bounty of the sea meant he had many days to spend in idleness. Despite the fair weather, he spent most of his time indoors, lying on the bed where he’d been happy, if only for a few hours. The sea breezes smelled like Sansa, and the rains sometimes brought the cat, who he’d begun to talk to as he’d once talked to Sansa. He couldn’t seem to relearn the content of solitude.

He never washed the pullover, though he did put it away once it stopped smelling like her hair, wild and floral, briny and musky. One day he bought a big bottle of spirits from the tavern, carried it home and drank for two days straight. When the liquor was all gone on the second night, he walked down to the beach, threw it in the sea and cursed at the top of his voice. He woke there the next morning, head pounding like someone’d stuck razor blades in his brain and then shook his skull for six hours. He carried himself back to the cabin, gulped good clean water from the rain barrel, then slept the whole day and evening away.

The next morning he vowed to stop feeling sorry for himself and get back to work. He would not be one of those men who walked into the sea, as much as he might want to. Sansa wouldn’t like it.

He got his house in order first, sweeping the floor for the first time in a month, washing his clothes, opening the window and door and letting the fresh air in. As soon as that was done, he rehabilitated the garden, weeding and staking out plants that had grown wild for weeks. He harvested what he was able, deciding to eat more greens from then on. He was aghast to see that in his idleness he had grown a little tummy. Not large, but he was noticeably flabby, and resolved to eat less rich foods, which he’d been unable to afford before, and return to his diet of fish and greens.

He went out to fish more, repaired his lobster traps, which would bring in good money that summer. Maybe he would take the extra money, add on to the cabin. Might be nice to have an actual bedroom, a store-room.

He bought new clothes, two pairs of breeches and woolen undershirts, and then, on impulse, traded with a rancher for three balls of fine, soft wool, dyed bright blue.

It was a frivolous purchase, one made on impulse. He’d spotted the blue from across the market, felt pulled to the rancher’s stall like a magnet. He’d touched the soft wool with his calloused fingers, the same shade as Sansa’s eyes. The rancher came over, and Sandor was a little embarrassed, put the rancher off with claims he was just looking, didn’t really need fancy yarn, did he? The rancher shrugged and left him alone, but the rancher’s wife came over.

“She’ll like it,” she said with a knowing smile.

“Who?” Sandor replied gruffly.

“Whoever you were thinkin’ about,” she replied.

Sandor grunted, but didn’t deny it. “How much you want for it? Can pay you in paper or fish.”

“What about lobster, I’ve seen you selling it before.”

He nodded, pulled two lobsters from the bucket in his cart. “Two left. Is that enough?”

She considered. “Tell you what, you bring me two more in two weeks, then two more two weeks after that. I would accept the two, but that blue dye’s dear.”

Sandor nodded, put the lobster back in the bucket and handed it to her. “I’ll let you keep the bucket if I can take the yarn now.”

“Seems fair. I’ll meet you back here in two weeks.”

That night, Sandor began knitting a shawl. He didn’t admit to himself that it was for Sansa, just reasoned that he needed something to keep his hands busy. As the summer began, and as the warm months wore on, he made progress, began measuring time in inches. It was a simple enough pattern, something his mother had made a few times. There was something soothing about the process. It was hard to worry about the future when his mind was occupied with a pattern, with the smooth click clack of his needles, the soft wool beneath his fingers. Even though it only served to remind him, he realized that the farther he got from that day in early spring, the more he wanted to remember.

He lay awake at night, usually just an hour or half an hour now, remembering the curves of her face, the feel of her skin, the dazzling brilliance of her smile. He heard her singing in his dreams, held her close, imagined all the ways he would love her if he ever saw her again. As time wore on, the memories caused less agony, settled instead into a dull ache. He realized that he wanted it to hurt, although he didn’t want to wallow in it. She was a new scar he carried with him, because if it ceased to hurt, maybe he would forget what it felt like to love, to be loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Hope it is just the right amount of angsty! I'll post the next chapter on Wednesday, and the final chapter next Saturday!


	6. But more sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh!!!! Happy endings!!!

One day in August, Sandor woke late in the morning. Despite his good intentions, from time to time Sandor slipped back to his idle ways. It was just so damn hot. He thought back to those cool spring breezes, and he could have died with longing. He rolled over in his bed, but the sheets just stuck to his back. He couldn’t even keep the door and window open, or he’d risk getting eaten alive by bugs.

Sandor groaned and sat up. There was no use staying in the house, boiling alive. He pulled on a pair of breeches, but left his chest bare. Throwing open the door, he looked out upon the bright morning. He stood at the door a moment, appreciating the beauty before him. Summer had turned everything green: long grass grew over the ground all around the cabin, the full lush leaves on the trees danced in a soft wind overhead. Out beyond the forest, the sun reflected on the waves, winking invitingly.

Sandor walked to the rain barrel, though upon opening it, found it empty. He cursed, gathered a bucket, and headed out behind the house. He hadn’t really planned to make the trek to the brook back behind the house, but he needed the water, and he shouldn’t put it off.

The walk wasn’t as bad as Sandor had expected. The trees, full of leaves, shaded him well from the sun, and a nice breeze suddenly came up, blowing off the ocean. Sandor found the brook, babbling through a small clearing. It looked so cool and inviting, Sandor waded in and threw himself down in a small pool. It wasn’t deep, barely enough to cover his chest, but the water was refreshing and relatively cool compared to the warm air. He spent several minutes lying in the running water, eyes shut. He was seriously considering sleeping there, when something in the water bit him. He might have been imagining it, but he was sure a fish or an insect or something had taken a nip out of his thigh. That was all the encouragement he needed to jump out of the water, spluttering and scattering arcs of water droplets everywhere.

He looked up to the edge of the brook to see a hare perched on its hind legs, staring at him. For a moment, he felt a little abashed at his sudden outburst. Then he remembered he didn’t owe any manners to a bunny, and made a start as if he were going to jump at the hare, who quick as a flash tore away from the brook. Sandor couldn’t help but laugh. He stopped at the sound of his laughter reflected back at him from the trees. Was that the first time he’d laughed since Sansa left?

He reached for the bucket, set about his business of gathering the water. He turned the bucket up to his mouth, took a deep drink, and filled it up again, before splashing out of the brook and heading back to the cabin.

He hadn’t thought of Sansa in at least a day, he realized, though he had dreamt of her last night, as if to compensate. For the first time, he’d dreamed of her in mermaid form, swimming alongside his boat. Every so often she would leap out of the water, singing in her foreign tongue. The singing was different, though. Where before it had been wild and lonely and melancholy, her singing now was joyous and exultant. He remembered wishing in the dream that she would stop and speak to him, but she wouldn’t stop swimming in circles around the boat, leaping and singing into the air.

Maybe it meant she was happy, Sandor thought as he arrived back in the cabin, taking the bucket of water and shutting it up inside. He decided he would work in the garden for a bit, then head down to the beach and swim for a while. He walked to the back of the house, and spent a little time weeding and aerating the earth around the beds and rows of vegetables. He knew there was more he could do, but his hands were slow and clumsy, as if his body resisted the work, and it was so warm, his mind kept wandering. Finally, he picked some vegetables for his dinner, then gave up pretending to be industrious.

He carried the veggies to the cabin, took another draught of water, then shut the door to the cabin and headed down the little beaten path to the shore. He kicked off his shoes at the tree’s edge, where the sand began, and walked out across the warm sand to the water’s edge. He stood for a minute with his feet in the water, looking out to sea. Big fluffy white clouds skidded across the sky, fathoms away, out over the ocean. They moved impossibly fast, propelled by the sea air, so the landscape was ever changing. He wondered if there would be storms later. The rain would be a relief, but the humidity would not.

Sandor waded into the water, little waves rushing out to greet him, then racing away again, back to the sea. Sandor waded out until he was hip deep, bent at the waist, and dove under the waves, eyes shut tight against the salt water. He swam a few strokes, then surfaced, dashing the water from his face. Though the salt still stung his eyes a little, he was mostly used to it. He laid back on his back, floating at the mercy of the tide rolling in, pushed by the ebb and flow of the waves until his back ran aground on the sandy beach. He lay there for a moment, with the water just running up and down past his legs and chest.

Then he stood up. Only a fool fell asleep in the sun with the tide coming in. He would probably wake up before he drowned, but not before he got a painful sunburn. He walked back to the tree-line, but turned right before he reached the path to the cabin, found a shady spot in the grass, and lay down. He soon fell asleep to the sound of the surf.

He didn’t know what woke him, but even before he opened his eyes, he could tell from the light it was several hours later. He shifted and stretched with eyes still shut. He knew he should get up, but it was so cool and comfortable on the grass, the soft sea breeze caressing his face, smelling like floral and brine.

He knew that scent. His eyes shot open and he sat up with a start, making the woman standing a few meters away jump slightly. He blinked several times to clear his vision, trying furiously to reconcile the image in front of him. No matter how hard he blinked, she was still there: a golden-skinned young woman wearing one of his linen undershirts like a tent, legs bare, long red hair whipped about in the breeze.

“Sandor,” she murmured, smiling.

He should be moving, he should be holding her, kissing her, crushing her to him so tight they couldn’t breathe. But he felt rooted to the spot. She had come back for him, like a parcel left at a post office. How soon until she left again?

“Yer back,” he said evenly, a little rough.

Sansa nodded, looking down at the sand beneath her. “Oh Sandor. I was always going to come back.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” he asked, a little louder than he’d meant to.

Sansa knelt in the sand, her face clouded. “I made so many promises to yer Ma that I didn’t keep. I didn’t want to make another promise if I wasn’t sure I could keep it. I wouldn’t have left if I could help it, but I had to do something about Ramsey and say goodbye.”

Sandor’s heart jumped, the fool thing beginning to hope. “Goodbye?”

She nodded, a small smile. “Ramsey’s dead; I killed him myself. I knew if I didn’t, my sister and brothers would never be safe, we would never be safe. My sister is queen now. She’ll be a good ruler. She was sad to see me go, but I think she knew I would never be happy in the sea again.”

She dug one hand into the sand, as if anchoring herself. “In case I didn’t return, in the event that Ramsey killed me, I wanted to give you the chance to find happiness. Maybe you wouldna always pine for me if you thought I wasn’t coming back. I thought maybe you would move on if you were not always waiting for me to come back.” She finally looked up at him, her eyes piercingly blue in her lightly tanned face. “Did you?”

“I’d sooner cut off my hand. Sansa.” And with that whispered name, they were on their feet, closing the gap, though something seemed to prevent him from embracing her fully as he used to. Sandor put his hand on the mound of her stomach, pulled up the loose undershirt to look at the rounded swell of her belly, about the size of a ripe melon.

“Sorry I was late. It slowed me down a little. I’m not as fast a swimmer anymore.” She smiled up at him hesitantly.

“How long have you known?” he asked.

“A few months. I left as soon as I knew fer sure, but it’s a long way. I had to stop a lot to rest.”

He ran his hand up and down the smooth drum of her skin, feeling the life within.

“Are you pleased?” she asked, a look of worry overcoming her face. Sandor reached up to touch her cheek, bent over to kiss her gently.

“I didn’t dare to hope,” he whispered. “I still feel like I’ll wake up any minute. But if I can just dream a few minutes more, I’ll be happy.”

Sansa pulled him to her, molding herself to his body as well as she could, kissing him fiercely. “It’s not a dream. I’m never leaving you again. That’s the only promise I’ll ever make you, Sandor.”

She took his hand and began to lead him back to the cabin. Sandor followed in a haze. He had a million questions to ask her, but knew he couldn’t even begin to put them all in any kind of logical order. Besides, there were more pressing matters at hand. Like the siren’s call.

Sansa opened the door and window of the cabin to the cool breezes rolling in from the water, the effect of her return, Sandor supposed. She turned to him and smiled shyly, taking his hand. “How’s the stray?”

It took a moment for Sandor to realize what she was talking about, he was so focused on her. He chuckled. “She just had a litter of kittens a few months ago. Brought them to see me. I think she was proud.”

He took her face in his hands, each palm cradling a cheek. “Yer so tan,” he laughed, caressing her skin with his thumbs.

“Aye, you are too. You looked just like a god sprawled out in the sand, I was mesmerized.”

He bent to kiss her. Sansa made a contented sighing noise low in her throat that increased the pressure in his groin, made him want to dispense with the small talk immediately and bed her quick, before the dream evaporated.

He kissed her long and deep, tongue refamiliarizing itself with hers, nipping gently at her bottom lip before his lips moved on to explore her face, her chin, her jaw, her neck. She gasped as he nibbled on her earlobe, panting his name when his teeth scraped against the delicate skin of her collarbone.

He reached down and pulled up the hem of the undershirt, pulling it up and over her head. Sansa reached back to free her hair, then dropped the garment to the floor. Sandor ran his hands over her skin for a moment, eyes skimming over breasts and belly and legs. His eyes caught for a moment at her left wrist, a little bracelet of blue ribbon encircled the tan skin.

He pushed her back to the bed, laying her crosswise across it. He crouched over her as he continued his trek across her skin. She had more freckles now, across her shoulders and nose. He would have to memorize these new constellations, but for now he focused on her breasts, tongue lapping at the dusky pink nipples, until they tightened to pebbles of dark red. Darker than he remembered, maybe that was because she was with child.

His child, he thought, kissing down her belly, hands caressing both sides of the mound. He kissed down the pink line that ran from top to bottom, wondering if that had hurt her. The line pointed straight from her head to her cunt, where Sandor honed in now. He knelt on the floor, her legs hooked over his shoulders, gazing at her for a few minutes. The dark red curly hair, the soft folds of her, that pungent scent, he took it all in for a moment, then bent his head to her, took a few questing laps with his tongue to get her flavor.

She was a little muskier than the last time, slightly less salty, but still much as he’d remembered. He sighed against her cunt and Sansa moaned, twining her fingers in his hair. He had wanted to take his time, but that felt suddenly impossible, and he sensed she was just as impatient. Sucking softly at her pearl, he inserted two fingers into her cunt, felt her pulse around him. He set his tongue to work on her, flicking across her little bud, as his fingers thrust in and out of her tight hole. He lapped at her until his muscles were sore, until she was gasping and writhing beneath him. He’d lost count of how many times she’d reached her peak, had barely paused the first time she cried out. He knew she’d come from the sounds she made, and the clenching of her cunt around his fingers, but continued relentlessly, chasing her up peak after peak, until she finally groaned, pushing his head away.

“Sandor, come here,” she moaned. “Need you inside me.”

He straightened from his bent over position and roughly thrust down his breeches, not bothering to pull them off all the way or even move. The low bed was at the perfect position when he was on his knees. He took his cock in hand, and pushed into Sansa with one fluid movement, sheathed to the hilt in her warm, drenched cunt. Sansa moaned and wrapped her legs around his waist.

“Does that feel good?” he asked, concerned. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“Feels like heaven. Don’t stop for anything.”

Sandor pulled his hips back, withdrawing from her a moment, before pushing his hips back slowly into hers, feeling her cunt squeeze around him like a fist. “Fuck, I’ve dreamed about yer cunt,” he gasped.

He pulled back and thrust forward again, a little harder this time, creating a satisfactory slap of his skin against hers. Sansa groaned. He looked to her face, mouth open in wordless pleasure, blue eyes watching him. He got a little thrill from the eye contact, he liked that she was watching him.

“Like watching me fuck you?” he asked, thrusting back into her again, this time so hard she moved back a little on the bed. He put his hands on her hips to keep her in place.

Sansa nodded, eyes becoming slightly glazed over. He recognized that look. She was going to orgasm again.

“You think about my cock while you were gone?” His eyes flicked to her hands, flung up by her head, the red hair spread out over his bed, her nipples, small and tight and so red.

She nodded again. “Tell me,” he demanded, pounding her again, pulling her back when the force of his thrusts pushed her away.

She hesitated, and Sandor knew she was trying to find the words. He knew she was probably having difficulty vocalizing after all these months, but couldn’t help pushing her. He had some strange need to hear her speak, an urge he’d never felt before. He had been silent too long, maybe, and now that the silence was broken, he wanted her words.

“Dreamed of you,” she finally croaked out, as he rutted into her, making her gasp and throw her head back. “In the cold, you were so warm. Dreamed of you and the sun and the bed. So soft.” She shut her eyes involuntarily as Sandor lifted one of her legs, changed the angle so he could drive even deeper into her. “Sandor,” she gasped, almost sobbing.

“Not going to last,” he grunted. She nodded desperately, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes, then began to cry out foreign words, her walls suddenly clenching around him, driving him over the edge with a load groan. Thrust after thrust, he shot what felt like pints of seed inside her, thrust until he felt her relax around him, and her cunt finally stopped pulsing. Then he fell forward, collapsing onto the bed beside her, gasping for air. He pulled Sansa to him, nestled her to his chest, where she murmured contentedly.

“I dinna hurt you, did I?” he asked, stroking her hair.

She shook her head. “No, love. I’m fine. We’re fine, aren’t we, little one?” She ran one hand protectively over her belly.

Sandor reached his hand down as well, caressing the stretch skin of her stomach, gasped in surprise when he felt a little kick. Sansa grinned, laughing at his expression. “We must have woke her. Go back to sleep, little one.”

“You came all that way like this? It took you a few months?”

“Nay, I knew before I left my family. It took me about a month. Only took me a week to cover the distance in the spring. Being pregnant slows me down a lot. Had to rest a lot, and I couldn’t do it in the water. I dunna ken why. The pregnancy, maybe, because you weren’t one of the Folk. No one in our pod’s ever got with child with a Land Walker before.”

Sandor pulled her to him, as close as he could. “Just glad yer safe. If I’d known, I woulda been worried sick.”

Sansa sighed, hooking one leg over his hip, lying sideways so her belly wasn’t in the way. “It’s all right. I’m not goin’ anywhere ever again. I’m home now.”

Sandor held her for a while, whispering into her ear all the ways he’d missed her, of all the things they would do now that they were together, how happy they would be. They slipped off into sleep for a while, though not long. Neither was very comfortable lying on the bed sideways. Sansa sat up after a while, rubbing a crick in her neck. Sandor watched as she walked across the cabin, combing her fingers through her hair before leaning down to ladle up a cup of water from the bucket on the table.

“Why did you think I’d moved on, if there was the spell?” he asked finally, propping his head up on his hand as he watched her.

She smiled, and pointed across the room to his chair. He turned to see where she was pointing, and saw the fine blue shawl lying on the back of the chair. He’d finished it months ago, and at first had shoved it into the trunk, cursing himself for a fool for wasting his time. Eventually, though, he’d brought it out again, finding himself comforted by the warm blue brightening up the room. He didn’t often sit in the stuffed chair now that it was so hot, usually sat in the wood chair at the table by the window, but he could look at the chair from where he sat. Sometimes he had pretended Sansa had just left the room, left the shawl draped across the back of the chair, and she would wrap it around herself once again when she returned.

“I thought for sure it was a woman’s, thought maybe you had a girl. The place looks cleaner, too. I didn’t find you or anyone else, so I came back down to the beach to wait for you, see if you’d taken the boat out.”

Sandor opened his mouth to speak, but it took a moment to clear his throat. “It’s for you. I made it for you.”

She looked surprised at that, walked over to stand at the back of the chair. She lifted the shawl from the back of the chair. It was about half a meter wide, almost two meters long. The pattern was a kind of lace his mother had taught him, she’d called it old shale, and it created undulating patterns that looked much like waves.

“Sandor, it’s beautiful. It must have taken ages.” She looked at him, her eyes full of tears.

“It took my mind off things,” he admitted. “Though I never thought you’d really come back.”

“Didn’t I tell you about the price of the spell?” she admonished him with a small shake of her head.

“You said I would love you, and never want another. You didn’t say it applied to you.”

She smiled, draping the shawl over the back of the chair. “Aye, and didn’t you heal me, the first night?”

“You healed yerself, I just-” he frowned, remembering how she’d healed him, her hand on the wound, singing to him, never breaking eye contact. And when she’d been injured, she’d placed his hand on her wound and told him to sing to her, to never look away.

“I couldna have done it myself, you ken. It is the bond that heals, not me.”

Something else occurred to him, then. He sat up. “Ma made you promise to heal me.”

“If you consented, aye.”

“She wanted me to fall in love with you?”

Sansa smiled, a small shy smile that melted Sandor’s heart on the spot, two small dots of color in her cheeks. “Aye, she was a bit of a matchmaker, yer ma.”

“Smart woman.”

Sansa ran her fingers over the shawl again, tracing the gentle swoop of the waves across the fabric. She picked up the shawl and settled it around her arms, so the tips of her shoulders poked out. She swept her hair over one shoulder, letting it flow down over her left breast. She twirled around once, then stopped, looking at Sandor over the curve of her bare shoulder, the rest of her body naked beneath the shawl from waist to toe.

“How do I look?” she asked, raising her eyes to his, one side of her lip curving up in a flirtatious simper.

Sandor felt like his heart had stopped at the sight of her, wearing the shawl he had labored on for those long nights, her golden skin and flaming red hair standing out in stark contrast to the ocean blue that matched her eyes. Her body beneath the shawl: the peak of her shoulder, the curve of her belly, the round peach of her bottom, her long, muscled legs, all helped to restart his heartbeat.

“Yer getting better at that,” he grumbled.

Sansa giggled, spinning around again on the balls of her feet, stopping to look at him over the other shoulder this time. “Better at what?”

“The siren’s call,” he said with a slow, languid smile. “You did it from all the way over there this time.”

“Does that mean I should come over there, now?” she asked, coquettish and sweet.

“I’d like that,” he admitted. Sansa eyed his erection, and un-wrapped the shawl from her shoulders, hung it on the chair again before walking back to the bed. Sandor watched as she put one knee on the mattress by his hip, then the other knee on the outside of the other hip, lowering herself to sit in his lap, her arms holding onto the back of his neck. Sandor let his arms settle around her waist. His cock settled between them, nestled against her belly.

Neither moved for a moment, content to be near one another, gazing into each other’s eyes. Sandor reached up with one hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, then dropped his head forward to kiss her neck. “Oh, I’ve missed you, my love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before  
> Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat  
> Full of bitter summer, but more sweet
> 
> \- “Ave Ateque Vale” by Algernon Charles Swinburne
> 
> That's the poem that inspired the titles of the chapters. One more chapter will be posted on Saturday, just a little epilogue. Hope you are enjoying it so far, and thanks so much for all of the kind comments and kudos.


	7. Love's own self is the deep sea's daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7 months later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood board from my friend [suzi](https://farovermistymountains.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Here's my own moodboard:
> 
> Also, I started knitting Sandor's shawl for Sansa, here's my progress so far. It's a pretty simple feather and fan pattern.

Sandor woke Sansa early one morning, kissing up the back of her neck. She woke quickly and turned over in his arms, returning his kisses fervently.

“It’s good, right? For your moon cycle?”

Sansa had seen an herb woman in town after the birth of the baby, who advised Sansa on how best to avoid getting pregnant again. One part was spilling his seed outside of her cunt. Sandor missed that sometimes, but there were any number of interesting places to spill that were almost as good, as they’d discovered. The other part was counting the days after her moon blood, and abstaining for several days in the middle. It never felt like a hardship, though, as there were many other ways to please one another. It was not that they didn’t want more children, but the herb woman had advised it would be better for mother and babes to spread out the pregnancies. So for a few days each month, Sandor kissed his wife below, and she took him into her mouth, and they were very well satisfied.

“Aye, still four days left,” Sansa murmured quietly against his mouth. She propped herself up on one elbow to check the cot, but no sign of waking yet.

They made good use of their time, using their hands to stimulate each other, then Sandor was sliding into her warm cunt with a satisfied sigh. He murmured in her ear all the things he loved about her, how good she felt, how lucky he was to have her as his wife. Sansa came quickly from the attentions of his thumb on her pearl, and Sandor finished in her mouth, as quietly as he could. They curled up again after, as a soft breeze wafted in from the sea.

Sansa had explained that after a few years of keeping to her human form, some of her magic would start to fade, at least, according to the legends of her people. She didn’t actually know anyone who’d done it, no one in her pod did, but the tales said that she would turn into a normal woman, soon, although her other-worldliness would be slower to fade if she lived by the sea. But her effect on the land had not faded yet. They’d had a cool autumn with a bountiful harvest and a mild winter. The spring looked also to be fair and clear.

Sansa had delivered a girl in the height of winter, and it was the easiest delivery that the herb woman had ever seen. Barely an eight-hour delivery, though Sansa had lied and told the woman she’d been in labor for a day before they called for her, so she wouldn’t be suspicious. The thought of that day was one of the biggest reasons why Sandor was in no hurry to spill his seed in her any time soon, what with the worrying and the pacing, though Sansa had laughed at him and called him a goose for being so nervous. He needn’t have been. The herb woman helped Sansa deliver before the fire, she’d refused the bed, as it was not her people’s way. Sandor smiled, remembering the way Sansa had lectured the herb woman, in the middle of delivery, about how delivering a baby in a horizontal position was silly and made no sense. “You let gravity do the work,” she’d moaned in between contractions, and the baby had slipped forward only minutes later to the herb woman’s waiting, cloth-covered hands.

“And who’s the professional, here?” the woman had chided, though she laughed and smiled as she did it.

Everyone had agreed that Daisy was the most beautiful babe they’d ever seen, and they said it every time Sandor and Sansa took her to market, although Sandor had to admit it might have been out of fear of contradicting him. If anyone in the village wondered at the sudden appearance of both a wife and child to a man who had not willingly said five words to any of them, they didn’t voice their wonder. Sansa was soon the favorite of the village, from the rancher and his wife who supplied her with wool as she learned to knit that winter, to the tavern keeper, where Sandor had been embarrassed to admit he used to get drunk and procure prostitutes. “But that was long before I knew you.”

“Well, just watch any of them come after you now, I’d claw their eyes out,” she replied after leaving the tavern with a bottle of brandy one autumn afternoon, which would be kept until the baby came, for disinfecting and anesthetic purposes.

Sansa drew her share of looks from the young men of the village, even with her round belly, but Sandor’s glares were enough to keep them away. As soon as he could afford it, he bought her a silver ring for her finger, and they went to the church to be married proper, one beautiful day in September. Sandor lamented that it wasn’t a proper ring with a jewel, but Sansa kept saying she didn’t care what it looked like.

“Besides, I’m the jewel,” she’d finally said once, a stubborn look on her face, and Sandor never complained about the plainness of the band again. She’d had her final say on the matter.

Sansa interrupted his wandering mind by leaning up and kissing him on the cheek, then standing to dress. He chuckled remembering that trip to the town proper, not the little village ten minutes away, to buy a first dress. He couldn’t take her in his clothes, it might cause scandal, so he walked into town, into a ladies’ shop and requested a dress.

The shopkeeper smiled and said she’d be glad to help. “What size is the lady?”

He looked the shopkeeper up and down. “She’s taller than you.” He gestured with one hand.

“And around?” the woman asked.

Sandor gestured with his hands, blushing a little. The shopkeeper eventually found him a nice dress. “It might be a little short on her, we don’t have any ready-made for one that tall. But she can belt this one, see, so if it’s too loose, she can make do. If she wants, of course, she can come in and we’ll fit one to her.”

Sandor did just that, bringing Sansa with him, though not until the late winter, after she’d delivered and gone back to her regular size. The one dress had served until then. Sansa wore Sandor’s breeches and undershirts as much as she could, until she got too big, but he’d explained that people would think it strange if she wore those things in public, and Sansa had understood. Now she had four dresses, all fitted to her.

His fishing business had thrived since she’d come to live with him. He fished every day, even if he didn’t need to, and went to market nearly every day as well, while Sansa helped to see to the house and stayed with Daisy. She’d warned him, though, that now that the baby was born, she might be the one to go out in the boat, and he could stay with Daisy. He’d just smiled and rocked the little girl in his arm.

“Aye, that would be just fine.”

Sandor stood and quickly dressed, then snuck up behind Sansa as she finished dressing, wearing his favorite blue dress. He stood behind her, clasped his hands at her waist, and brought them up in front of her, a string of pearls hanging from his fingers. He appreciated Sansa’s little noise of admiration as he brought his hands behind her neck, fastening the clasp.

“Oh, Sandor. They’re beautiful. I havena seen pearls in years.” She turned to the mirror on the mantlepiece, another change she’d brought to his little cabin, admiring the way they looked around her slender neck. “They’re far too fine for every day,” she said, turning around to face him.

“But it’s not just any day. It’s one year since you came to me, and made me the happiest man in the world.” Sansa cooed a little and leaned forward to kiss him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“And then you left me devastated,” he teased. Sansa’s mouth fell open in feigned shock.

“I did not!”

“You did. You made me love you, then you ripped out my still-beating heart and swum away with it.”

She swatted his shoulder. “I should have never come back, neither!”

He leaned in to kiss her, to let her know he was only playing, and Sansa kissed him back, body molding to his. She still had the siren’s call, though Sandor suspected that she would always have that, even when he was an old, old man and she still looked young and fresh as the day he’d met her.

“Will you ever age, or will I be decrepit and ancient while you still look like the goddess of the spring?”

Sansa blushed at that, and just then, a thin wail split the air. Sansa kissed him one more time before going to the cot. Sandor had built it from fine dark mahogany, and carved the outside with images of boats, seashells, fish, leaping dolphins, and a mermaid. He watched as Sansa lifted Daisy from the cot, and Sandor was reminded once again what a beauty she was, just like her mother. Once in her mother’s arms, Daisy settled down. She wasn’t a fussy baby, but she did like to know her parents were also awake the moment she was. She smiled at her mother, who made sweet faces back at her, until Daisy was giggling. She held her hand out to Sandor, who took it immediately, leaning forward to kiss her gleaming auburn curls. She’d been born with eyes as blue as the sea, but they’d darkened over time. Sandor had always thought Sansa’s were the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, but privately he thought Daisy’s were maybe even prettier, the color of the sea at storm, a mix of Sansa’s bright blue and his own grey.

Everyone in town always remarked how healthy she was for a winter babe. The lean months often produced sickly children who died in infancy, but Daisy was strong and lively and bright-eyed. Sandor knew it was her mother’s magic in her, but he thanked the gods every day that she was stronger than her aunt. He hoped it wasn’t tempting fate to name her after his sister, who had been struck down by illness when she was barely out of childhood, but every day that Daisy grew stronger, the worries came back to his mind a little weaker. One day, he thought happily, he wouldn’t even think of it.

Daisy’s eyes fixed on the pearls immediately after greeting her da, and her eyes grew round as her fingers reached out for the necklace. Sansa scolded Daisy good-naturedly, as the baby kicked and cooed, still trying to get at the forbidden adornment, which probably looked like a toy to her. Without having to be asked, Sandor undid the clasp and pulled the necklace away, kissing Sansa’s neck and making a funny face at Daisy to head off the tears she had started to shed at being denied something she wanted. She burst into giggles instead, and Sansa took her cue to carry Daisy to her rocking chair and begin to nurse. Sandor knelt and kindled a fire as Daisy suckled, so that he and Sansa could eat after. He cooked up a few strips of ham and some toast, ate his fill quickly. When Daisy was done, she went to Sandor’s lap so Sansa could break her fast.

Sandor laid Daisy on his knees, flat on her back, and held her hands as she gurgled in her baby language. Sansa talked as she cleaned up the breakfast dishes, while she discussed her plans for expanding the garden. She had been planting in haste for a few weeks now, and a few weeks ago, started to see the first shoots grow into hearty plants. Sandor listened and offered the occasional suggestion, but his wife needed little encouragement. A far cry from the quiet, croaky girl she’d been a year ago.

He knew he had changed too. Sometimes he would catch a glimpse of his face in the little mirror, and the face looking back at him was a stranger, scar all but vanished, smiling more often than not, eyes lit up from inside. In those moments he would find Sansa and catch her around the waist and kiss her till she swatted him away with a giggle. Unless Daisy was asleep, that was, in which case they would find the bed quickly, whispering and giggling in hushed tones as they fumbled with clothing. Mostly, they didn’t even bother undressing at all, Sandor would quickly stick his head up under Sansa’s skirts and Sansa would pull down Sandor’s breeches only far enough to free his cock.

Not all their love was made hurriedly. Now that Daisy was sleeping longer, and more consistently at night, they often times went straight to bed after putting her down. One night, on the first pleasant night of spring, they carried Daisy’s crib down to the shore, and went for a swim at sunset, making love on the beach. It was a little cold, but the surf covered their sounds, so they could cry out without waking her. Daisy seemed to love the waves, and slept soundly for a long time while Sansa and Sandor fucked with wild abandon.

The scent of Sansa was enough to set him off, or the flash of her bare skin. He remembered the day before, when she had the wash basin out on the little porch, skirts tucked up into the waistband of her dress so they wouldn’t hinder her movement, showing off her shapely legs while she washed and hung the clothes up to dry on the clothesline out front. Sandor had been working nearby chopping wood while Sansa washed, but he took frequent breaks just to watch her. At night, she would let her hair down from her braid, and let him brush the silky red locks, and it made his heart full to bursting, how lovely she was, the fullness of her eyes when she would take the brush away, replace it with her hand, and pull him to bed.

Sansa had finished with the dishes and stood in front of him. That was his cue to give Daisy back to her and head out in the boat. He would fish for a few hours, until it was time for dinner, then come in to eat. After, he would load up the morning’s catch, hitch the mule and head into the village. He sold the whole load to the fish monger for a very good price, who in turn sold the fish in the village and in town to folks to have for their suppers. When he arrived back home, it would be near dark, the days having not yet lengthened. He would stable the mule, bed her down with a portion of oats, then turn back to the house.

He loved walking back to the house in the twilight, a few coins jingling in his pocket from his day’s work, the light of the lantern and the fire peeking out from the edges of the window and above and below the door. Sometimes he could hear Sansa singing as she fed the fire, started supper. Daisy loved to hear her sing, could sit for hours smiling and waving her little hands, and even though Sansa insisted the baby was too little to know, Sandor insisted she knew what Sansa was singing, that she had favorite songs. And Daisy’s favorite was also her da’s, “My Luve is like a Red, Red Rose”.

Maybe Sansa would be singing it tonight when Sandor walked back from the little stable. Maybe sorrow and illness and death would skip this house over, maybe misfortune would see that this family had already seen its fair share and never darken their door. Maybe the fish would swim straight into the net, and the lobster walk right into the traps, the rain would fall gentle and the breezes blow soft and sweet. Maybe Sansa would never think of the sea life she gave up with a sigh, and Sandor would always look at her with love in his heart and lust in his loins. Maybe Sansa would always be as beautiful as the day he met her, and Sandor would love her as much in a hundred years as he did today.

Sandor leaned forward and kissed Daisy, surrendered her to her mother as he stood, then bent down to kiss Sansa. She smiled at him, patted his cheek before he left. As Sandor dragged the boat down to the shore and pushed off, he whispered a brief prayer to the sea, the only god he really believed in. He prayed that the fishing would be easy and bounteous, that his children would grow up strong and healthy and never want, that he would be worthy of the wife the sea had given him, for however long he had left. He never knew if the sea listened. She held her own mysteries, and the only sound he heard was the squawking of the gulls, the soft sigh of the breeze, the lap of the waves against the boat.

_A dream, and more than a dream, and dimmer_

_At once and brighter than dreams that flee,_

_The moment’s joy of the seaward swimmer_

_Abides, remembered as truth may be._

_Not all the joys and not all the glory_

_Must fade as leaves when the woods wax hoary;_

_For there the downs and the sea-banks glimmer,_

_And here to south of them swells the sea._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading, and for your kudos and kind comments. I hope you've enjoyed my smutty little fic!


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